Someone Worth Living For
by GuitarGirl97
Summary: Three years have gone by since the fire at the Paris Opera Populaire and Christine Daae is now married to Raoul. Life is far from the marital bliss she expected. Meanwhile, Erik is finally starting to live again after his friend Nadir revived him and gave him the courage to live. A surprise meeting between Christine and her Angel, however, could change everything...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ****I am neither Gaston Leroux nor Andrew Lloyd Webber. The characters and any references to Phantom songs/plot are not mine.**

**Prologue**

'_You are crying! You are afraid of me! And yet I am not really wicked. Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself'- The Phantom of the Opera, Gaston Leroux_

_._

Erik was glad to finally see France again. He wasn't sure why, exactly, but the pang of content that speared his heart as the boat came into the harbour at Calais made him feel comfortable. His skin was still glowing from his travels to the Orient, to Italy, to Greece. His mind was fresh from the trip to England. And now his heart felt safe again as they disembarked the boat onto French soil once again; the first time he had stood on such soil in three long years.

His companion and closest friend, Nadir Khan, looked a little gloomy at the thought of being in France again. The old fool still hadn't managed to quite grasp the essence of the language and often found it humiliating when Erik had to help him with the more sophisticated vocabulary. The whole voyage had been Nadirs idea; a trip to his home in the Orient and then a tour of all places beautiful, musical and intellectual in Europe. The melodies had come swarming back as Erik saw the temples of Greece, the statues of Rome, the intellect of England, the beauty of Venice. Funny, how he had thought he would never be able to compose again, not after losing-

No. Erik gritted his teeth and ploughed on through the crowds with Nadir. He refused to even think her name; she was happy now, and that was all that mattered. He could live without her, he _must_-

The crowds did not daunt him anymore, even though it was bright and everyone could see him. In Italy, they had found a master craftsmen how had fashioned a mask that blended perfectly into Erik's face so he looked far less conspicuous, almost as if he were normal. It was a horribly uncomfortable thing, so he only wore it in public places, but it gave him a sense of humanity and belonging that he had never felt before.

"So, where shall we go now?" Nadir asked in his native Persian tongue, "We could just head for Paris and my home, but there are so many other places that-"

"No. I need to see Madame Giry." Erik cut Nadir off, making the Persian look a little miffed, "I want to make sure that she is comfortable and happy, a she now has no work after I caused that ridiculous fire-!"

Nadir laid a restraining hand on his friends arm, eyes wise and full of concern. After all they'd been through together he and Erik were as good as brothers, despite any hatred Erik may have shown before. The last three years had changed him a lot, though Nadir was convinced some of those changes had been encouraged by Christine's two kisses and his own act of letting her go.

"My friend, is that really a good idea?" Nadir was gentle but firm, "The Giry's, Paris, your whole time in France could bring back…unsavoury memories."

Erik knew his friend was speaking sense, but still he felt a little angry.

"Now I am a child, Nadir, is that it?" he asked in an icy voice, "Am I really so weak-willed and incapable that anything to do with that hideous event will turn me back into that insane creature I was? I thought you knew me better, Khan."

Nadir rolled his eyes a little. He knew his friend was an artistic genius, but was there a need for such melodramatics? Erik's anger didn't faze him.

"But I do know you, very well." Nadir said in a humoured voice, "Enough to know that you truly loved her. I know you will not try to abduct her or something equally as mad, as you have changed, but I don't want you to be sad Erik. That is all."

"I will not be sad; I am strong." Erik said, almost to convince himself, "And now I wish to catch the train to Paris and see my old friend. I plan to give her some of that money we earned."

They had collected quite a sum of money over their three year voyage. It had turned out that Nadir was a dab hand at alchemy, so whilst he made potions and herbal remedies to sell at markets en route Erik had played the violin and piano on the streets and for one off performances. If they so desired, they need never work again.

"She will be pleased, then, to see you? Not frightened of the Opera Ghost?" Nadir teased daringly as Erik studiously ignored him, finding a carriage amongst the surging crowds and paying the driver to take them to the train station.

Only Nadir, Madame Giry and presumably her daughter, Meg, knew that he, Erik the Opera Ghost, still lived. But then most people had presumed him to never be alive anyway, a mere myth gossiped amongst the superstitious opera folk. His angel and her boy must think him dead, or…

Once again, Erik brushed the memories aside. What use was the past? Christine Daae and his time as the Opera Ghost was merely another meaningless page in his dark history. If he could, Erik intended to leave all that behind now and look to a better future. He didn't need someone to live for; he had himself now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Gaston Leroux nor Andrew Lloyd Webber. **

**Author Note:**** To fellow POTO fans and hopefully my readers (fingers crossed!); behold my first Phanfic! This story is set three years after the events of POTO, taking a storyline mixed from both the awesome book and the amazing musical/film. It mainly focuses on Erik and his story (but is an Erik/Christine pairing!) so please don't worry if Christine doesn't feature for a bit. It's all pre-written, hopefully with fairly regular updates (not daily) and reviews are always appreciated! Before everyone gets bored (sorry this is long!) here are a few basic facts for this fic regarding 'past events'.  
My timeline for Erik's life is as follows; he was abandoned by his mother and was therefore with the gypsies until about the age of 5. He escaped gypsy life at 5 and then lived at the Opera until the age of 15 before then going on a ten year around the world voyage and meeting Nadir. At 25 he returns to the Opera and meets 7 year old Christine. (In this story in Erik is about 38, Christine 20.)  
I know these facts are not entirely accurate, but I am using a little bit of artistic licence. Andrew Lloyd Webber and Gaston Leroux's brilliance remains. Thank you!**

**One- Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again  
(The de Chagny townhouse, Paris)**

Christine de Chagny, the new young Vicomptess, lay sobbing in her bedroom wishing the world would at last end. She felt so ill and weak, barely able to move and so sad her heart might shatter. Her baby, her little sweet baby...

She had never gotten to cradle it, sing him or her to sleep with old Swedish lullabies and watch over her darling as he or she slept. 4 months along, she had been, until Raoul had decided to go to Paris to meet with his parents and had ordered she came too. She knew, deep down, that a bumpy carriage ride could not be the sole cause of her heartbreaking miscarriage, but it couldn't have done her any good! She should have told Raoul no, that she wouldn't go gallivanting up and down the country in her state.

But he had already been angry at her, for her lack of ability to act the new Vicomptess and to deal with the gossip and cruel rumours circulating.

She had disgraced herself at a party by crying when she overheard a group of women discussing her, saying she was probably once a prostitute and had probably given some horrible disease to the Vicompte. Raoul had berated her for it, telling her that she must hold her head high, that ladies never behaved so wrongly in public.

But she was no fine lady with noble blood; she was a Swedish musician's daughter, once ballerina in the Paris Opera until she sang in the place of Carlotta and attracted Raoul's attention. She partly blamed his cruel family for the tension in their marriage, but she also blamed herself for not being good enough.

What am I good at? She thought miserably, singing and that is it!

She sat up in the huge bed, tears still dribbling down her face and dripping onto the sheets. Where was Raoul? Hadn't someone even had the decency to tell him?

The Compte would be angry at this miscarriage, as if the baby had been a boy he would have been the de Chagny heir. Christine paled at the thought of her angry father-in-law, whose hatred of her was often blunt, open and very demeaning. The Comptess was far more pleasant, but she dared not speak out against her husband just as Christine never dared to speak out against Raoul. Raoul's sisters, however, were by far the worst. They spread the cruel gossip and made hurtful comments right to her face, often hidden behind innocent questions. She was sure they would just love to hear of her illness and sadness at the present.

Christine stared at the ornate ceiling above her and sighed, wiping the last tear away and examining it in the light. The little drop sparkled like a diamond, suddenly so much more impressive.

She had been that droplet once; boring and simple, nothing significant unless in a huge multitude of performers. But then the Opera lights had made her sparkle, turned her into a star and captured the attention and the hearts of audiences and her now husband.

But someone had loved her long before those lights had masked her, changed her appearance and made her great.

Someone had cared for her almost all of her life.

Someone had known every bit of her, worshipped her, finally shown his true self to her and she-

She had shunned him. Turned him mad with sadness and envy, so mad he saw fit to abduct her and to kill Raoul and yet, after all the hatred she had hurled at him, all the pain she had dumped upon him after all he had done for her... he had released them both, safely.

She hadn't even kept her promise to go to him now he was dead; she was a hideous person, a shallow fool who valued looks over soul, passion and genius! At that moment, Christine knew that if she held a knife she would have gladly plunged it into her heart and died. Every day was so painful, but she had kept going at the thought of a child to cherish but now-

The door suddenly flew open and Raoul charged in, eyes ablaze and wild. He snarled and ran up to her, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her hard. She gasped.

"You-you killed our baby, the de Chagny heir!" he bellowed as he shook her, spittle flying at her face and fingers painfully digging into her soft flesh, "You cold hearted wretch! I-I'll kill you, I'll stab you right now!"

"Raoul!" she sobbed, voice cracking with the pain, "I did not kill our child; oh our child Raoul, our poor, poor baby!"

His eyes were wild with uncontrolled anger and his grip on her felt vice tight. Christine could not believe that this man, this crazed lunatic who gripped her so tightly, could possibly be the same man who had sworn to love her and be with her everyday of her life; hiding her, holding her, guiding her. She was so lost and beaten by the anger in his once soft eyes that she began to cry properly, broken and feeble, the pitiful sobs washing the burning hatred in her husband's eyes away. He seemed to snap out of a trance, shaking his head a little and instantly crushing his wife against his chest in a fierce embrace.

This hurt more than when he had gripped her shoulders, a button grinding into her soft flesh, but she didn't dare speak out for fear of losing him to the anger again.

"Oh my love, I- curse all this!" he bellowed, "My child, my _heir_- how can this be?!"

There were so many things Christine wanted to say, but it was as if the weight of her own tears had clogged up her throat and they would not come out. She reached up with a tentative hand to stroke her husband's hair and he responded like a child, clinging to her as if she were a raft in a stormy sea. They sat there together, crying for their child who they had never met, the child they had yearned for and adored from the moment they knew of its existence.

All too soon, Raoul pulled away from his wife who was silently weeping, drooping almost lifelessly and looking closer to death than anything. She discreetly touched her cheek where the button had hurt her and almost instantly pulled her hand away. The mark left was raw and open.

"Never mind, never mind." Raoul said softly, looking in the mirror to straighten his collar. Christine quickly lay down on the bed to hide the mark on her face, wincing as the contact with the soft pillow made it burn. "We are young Christine; we can have many more children. Don't cry, my love, it doesn't matter. It's not your fault."

_What?_

"I- I am not crying because we have no heir and I feel guilty, Raoul, I am crying because I loved that child inside of me!" she whispered in shock, trying to find a reason in his words as to why he would say something so cruel.

Then he laughed. The sound, so honestly amused, made Christine want to vomit. How could he be so casual? Was the pain not eating him up inside? Why was he not distraught?!

"Don't be silly, Christine, you never met it." He replied almost fondly, like a Father talking to a child telling make-believe stories, "I don't quite see how you can love something you never even met."

"But not 'it' or 'something', Raoul! Somebody. He or she. Little Gustave, or little Marie or whichever name our little baby would have been blessed with." Christine replied brokenly, her heart well and truly shattered by her husband's cold dismissal.

He laughed again, walking over to her and patting her head fondly as if she were a little dog who had just performed a trick on the whim of its master. Master. Christine felt tears prick her tired eyes once more. Should marriage not be loving and equal, despite your social standing? Raoul headed for the door, a small smile still on his face.

"Ah, Christine, you sound like you're talking about some little dolly you owned." He tried not to laugh again, but his snorted a little. Christine shot up in bed, her mouth gaping open in shock that he could be so casual regarding the death of their first child! A child made through their love...

"Now, I've a dinner with my parents and some old friends tonight and I ordered you a brand new dress so that you can come along." He said in that same cheerful tone, almost as if she should be grateful for being thought of, "It starts at seven, so we had better leave by at least-"

"I'm not going."

The ensuing silence was deafening. Christine had never dared to defy Raoul before, not after she had witnessed a horrible scene between him and a maid that had resulted in the poor girl having a huge black eye and a broken nose. But now she was simply too sad to be scared.

Raoul looked stunned and then, after a moment, angry.

"Christine, as my wife you will attend this dinner." He said in a dangerous voice, gripping the doorframe as if he were holding himself back from hitting her. "It is your duty."

Christine, trembling just a little, looked into his wild eyes and wished with all her soul that he would become the man she had fallen in love with three years ago. She begged him with her eyes to stop being so cold, to sympathise with her if not to suddenly drop this dutiful persona and sob alongside her. But his hardened gaze did not soften.

"Raoul, I am a mess." She said softly, begging him to be kind, but his mouth simply fell open in stunned anger at her continued refusal. "I just lost our baby, our first baby, and I am not ready to even get out of this bed, let alone to dine with your parents and strangers who will think I am a complete wreck if they meet me now."

"Christine! No-one is dead! There isn't a war, you aren't dying!" he yelled, exasperated and reaching boiling point, "Stop being so dramatic!"

Christine felt anger bubble under her skin. Someone had died; their baby. Using all her nerve she muttered, in a perfect sarcastic tone;

"I was an opera star, _darling_; of course I'm being dramatic."

She heard Raoul suck in his breath, she saw his body tense. Then, in a flash, he strode across the room and slapped her with all his might across the face. Pain stung her like acid, burning even more due to the graze from Raoul's buttons. She couldn't even retaliate she was so shocked by what he had done.

He had hit her- hit her! Not because he was drunk, like usual, but in cold blood! She was so stunned that the cry of pain did not even reach her mouth. Raoul looked at her, face tight with anger and yet a little shred of guilt in those cold eyes.

"Suit yourself." He said coldly, turning on his heel and slamming the door shut with all his might. The sound was like a dam being broken, as then the gates opened and the tears came cascading out of Christine's eyes again.

She had never sighed death upon anyone. She had never really had the reason too. But she knew now, with blinding certainty, that if some accident should occur this evening and Raoul died she would be glad; for if he died, she could escape this money driven house of hate and find a real home. But that would not happen, so here she was stuck with a gaudy wedding ring on her finger to entrap her.

"Oh my Angel, what made me shun you?" she whispered to the empty room, falling into another tear filled faze, wishing she could just die.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: ****I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note: ****Hey! It's an update! You may have noticed I changed my rating from T to M, and that is simply because I am new to fanfiction and have no clue as to what is the fine line between a T story and an M story...any advice would be much appreciated! Also, I have just realised that I can actually 'reply' to comments as opposed to putting my replies as reviews...I will do this from now on, my stupid mistake ****. **

**This chapter is dedicated to my lovely reviewers who made my day; EMCLucky13, Hugabouv, Dkk5...thank you so much guys! Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated!**

**Two- My Dear Old Friend, Can't Believe You're Here, Old Friend  
(The Giry Residence, Paris)**

On a shabby street in Paris, a peeling door opened and sudden screams of delight erupted into the morning air as two old friends met again after a lengthy absence. An onlooker would have see an older woman all in black, hair tucked neatly away in an intricate braid embracing the two men standing on her doorstep without shame. Perhaps they would be shocked by this open display of affection from such a stern looking woman.

Erik was certainly shocked as he was embraced by Antoinette Giry. Was she not all repulsed by him? But then again, they were good friends of many years and theirs was a friendship that held no secrets; how could it?

"Erik, it is so good to see you again!" she beamed, eyes sparkling, "My, my, you're looking so healthy these days! And that mask- it doesn't even notice!"

"How else could I have returned to a city baying for the blood of a masked man?" Erik asked, an involuntary smile creeping onto his face. She laughed and nodded in agreement, unable to stop smiling.

"Oh, dear me, all the hype over _that_ died down a good while ago." She suddenly seemed to see Nadir and so she lapsed back into hysteria. "Nadir Khan! It's been so long-! Oh, where are my manners today?! Come in, come in; both of you!"

Nadir smiled at the flustered woman whom he had met only once and yet already knew so much about from Erik's tales. He knew that this laughing woman had been the strictest and yet the greatest ballet instructor in all of Paris and had been quite a star in her day. Nadir watched how she acted with Erik, completely at ease with him, and instantly saw how she had rescued him as a little boy. He smiled to himself as Antoinette led both him and Erik through a shabby hallway and into a bright little kitchen, still babbling away non-stop about complete nonsense. You wouldn't think such a stern looking woman, disapproving in black clothes, would be such a chatterer.

Once in the kitchen, Antoinette threw her hands up in the air with a cry of delight, startling a young woman who was crouching down on the floor, feeding what looked like a small black cat. She had long blonde hair that glistened like gold in the light of the range, looking up with startled cornflower blue eyes.

"Erik, Nadir, you may have met my daughter Meg?" Antoinette gestured to her with an airy wave, evidence of her ballerina past. "Meg, this is-"

"It's him." She cut her Mother off with a fascinated whisper, eyes now interested and bright with excitement. She instantly straightened up from her crouch, a small smile spreading out onto her cherub face. "It is him! The Opera Ghost! Oh Monsieur, my Mother has told me so much about you-"

"And yet, evidently not enough that you can be polite." Antoinette chided sternly, voice cheerful to strict in a split second. "Erik. His name is Erik, Meg. And the other gentleman is his dear friend, Monsieur Nadir Khan."

Meg blushed a little at her mistake and ducked her head shyly. Erik managed another smile for the daughter of his old friend, making her look far more comfortable. She had improved a lot with age; her face now angelic and her hair radiant. Her smile was bright and she was stunningly beautiful...but Erik could never find anything more attractive than glossy brown curls or deep brown eyes, always innocent and slightly wary. He instantly dropped the thought of _her_ hair and _her_ eyes like a hot poker, hurrying to rid his mind of _her_.

"Pleased to meet you at last, Monsieur's." She said in a slightly sheepish and yet bright voice, not at all scared or wary of either of them. Erik had watched Meg often in the Opera, simply because as Christine's closest friend they had always been together, dancing and gossiping and laughing like sisters. Erik liked Meg Giry; she was optimistic, bright and had always treated Christine as she deserved; with kindness and love.

"And you, Mademoiselle." He returned the polite greeting. "You may call me Erik, and I am sure Nadir will let you call him just that."

Nadir nodded with a smile, making Meg giggle.

"You must both call me Meg." She beamed at them both, hurrying back over to the little black cat and scooping the mewing bundle up into her arms. "This is Pandora."

Both Erik and Nadir liked cats. They had spent many dark nights on their journeys being escorted by those stunning night creatures, their glowing eyes like little beacons in the darkness. Erik admired the independence of cats. They enjoyed solitude and could easily fend for themselves; qualities that he himself had tried and mostly failed to adopt.

Antoinette rolled her eyes and tutted her daughter, making shooing gestures with her delicate hands.

"Go, take that pet of yours upstairs. You know I cannot stand that animals fur, it sheds everywhere!" Antoinette said with a sigh, and Meg nodded and ran off with the cat still in her arms. Antoinette gestured for Erik and Nadir to take seats at the huge scrubbed oak table, smiling ruefully. "That girl...she would take in every stray in the city if she had her way. Too kind for her own good, I think. Now, please, sit! I will make us some refreshments whilst you tell me of your adventures!"

Meanwhile, Meg skipped up the stairs and lay her precious Pandora down on her bed, hurrying to quickly straighten her hair and brush the stray black hairs off of her white dress. Looking in the mirror she touched her soft, pale cheek and thought about how horrid it must be to have to wear a mask everyday of your life. Surely it would rub you raw. Meg shuddered delicately. She could hardly believe that the mysterious Opera Ghost, the monster of her nightmares and the evil kidnapper of poor Christine could really be that nice man! She had been horrified when her Mother had told her about Erik three years ago, whilst also feeling secretly curious and a little desperate to meet him. He seemed and sounded perfectly pleasant and Meg decided that he must be nice.

As she brushed her long hair, humming a little tune to herself, she suddenly wondered if Erik or Nadir knew that the de Chagnys were living in Paris for the moment, or that rumours stated that the Vicomptess was expecting a child in October. Her Mother had told her that it had been Erik's passionate love for Christine that had turned him insane enough to kidnap her. Meg instantly questioned the idea of telling Erik these things, but thought better of it. Maybe he didn't want to talk about it.

Now convinced, after meeting him, that Erik's desperate love for Christine was dreamily romantic, Meg wondered if he still loved her. She nearly swooned at the thought of reuniting the two of them so that their music could flourish once more!

Meg missed her friend, dearly. They had been avid pen pals until Christine's marriage, writing with promises to still be friends and meet one another to go shopping or to watch an Opera together. But someone, somewhere, had obviously decided that it was rather improper for a Vicomptess to be friends with a ballerina, for the letters had stopped soon after the wedding and all of Meg's own letters were returned to her. It had annoyed her immensely at the time.

But now Meg Giry was happy enough. She still danced and was starting to sing more and more, discovering that her voice could in fact sound lovely. She cared for Pandora as if she were a real human child and still secretly fed all the other strays she could find. She had been courting Edouard, the handsome violinist, for nearly a year now and was perfectly happy with him. She only wished that Christine had not been swept away into the aristocracy, and could still be dancing and laughing by her side.

She danced down the stairs and into the kitchen, stopping in horrified shock as she saw her Mother sobbing. But as she ran over to her, she realised with sweet relief that her Mothers tears were not due to anguish, but joy.

"Oh my darling girl, Erik has- oh dear me Meg! These two men, these two perfect men, have- oh my dearest, they have given us enough money to live at ease!" Antoinette tried to calm herself down, fanning her face and dabbing at her streaming eyes with a handkerchief. "You will not need to work in that ghastly bar anymore in the evenings, why, you can even take in another blasted cat! Oh Erik, Nadir, we can never thank you enough!"

Erik felt more than a little overwhelmed as Meg too began to cry, rushing over to him and kissing his cheek before moving onto Nadir and doing the same. Never in his life had anyone been so thankful of anything he had done, no-one had ever been so nice or...comfortable around him as Meg. She had accepted him from first glance, ignoring the mask on his face and seeing the man behind it. Even now, as he wore the far more comfortable and obvious white mask, she still did not stare.

"Thank you Erik." She wept and gave him a quick embrace. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart! And you too, dear Nadir, we have only just met but I already esteem you both as the kindest men I have ever known!"

Erik was so stunned he could do little more than nod and try to smile. He failed the latter miserably.

Over the mid-morning refreshments Meg and Antoinette dried their eyes and engaged their guests into far cheerier conversation, nearly bubbling over with gratitude and happiness. Their eyes, with dark circles underneath, sparkled with life and Meg practically pirouetted around the kitchen as she cleared away plates, her dress billowing out so she looked like a dancer in a show.

"Monsieur- I mean, Erik." She giggled a little. "Would you be so kind as to help me with a song? I am singing a solo in the latest act but a few of the notes remain a little...strained. Are you able to help me at all?"

"I would be happy to help you, Meg." Erik nodded, feeling a little pleased that she had asked him. "Where is your venue; have I heard of it?"

Meg stifled a giggle, her hand pressed against her mouth as her cheeks turned pink.

"Heard of it?!" she burst out laughing, "Why, you practically ran it! It is the Opera Populaire, Erik! They re-built it; didn't you know?!"

Erik felt dazed, his head beginning to spin in a nauseating fashion. Re-build the Opera Populaire? But...why? Hadn't the fire and the deaths, not to mention the fear of the Opera Ghost, scared everyone away from that place, leaving it in abandon? Erik turned to Nadir and saw he was just as stunned, his coffee coloured skin faded to a deathly pale.

"Is this- can this really be?" the Persian man asked in a hoarse voice with what appeared to be hesitancy. Nadir could not believe that such an important detail could have passed him by. If he had known he would never have agreed to come to Paris! This cruel reminder of a dark past was all Erik needed now.

"It is true, Nadir. I shall explain." Antoinette said gravely as Meg bit her lip and looked a little sheepish. Antoinette patted her daughters arm lightly. "After the fire, the mob pillaged the catacombs of the Opera House, searching for a masked man. They found no-one, not even the Vicompte and Christine as they had already fled. The mob raged the streets of Paris, searching high and low for you."

"I-I was in the vault behind my mirror." Erik whispered and his voice cracked as the words inadvertently brought back the pain of that night. "Nadir came and found me hiding there. He smuggled me out of the country."

"Well, the mob searched all the likely areas that you might be hiding." Antoinette continued methodically, reaching for Megs hand without breaking her level gaze with Erik, "As they found no masked man after a whole night searching, it was eventually assumed that such a man had never truly existed. Many believed it to be a stunt organised by the Vicompte de Chagny, to have an excuse to whisk away young Christine Daae. All, however, agreed that the fire and the chandelier fall must have simply been an accident and the matter was dismissed. The myth of the Opera Ghost was laid to rest. The Opera Populaire came into new hands; a pair of music published called Jean Thiland and Francois Galley. They tore down the damaged stage and seating, leaving the undamaged parts of the Opera standing, and rebuilt those areas that were torn down. The construction finished about a year ago, and publicity had flourished."

Antoinette stood up with ease, her past as a ballerina meaning she was still fit and able to move as swiftly as a river flows. She went to her cupboards, opening doors and searching intently until she found what she desired. She brought back to the table a wooden crate; taped shut and sinister looking. Erik swallowed loudly, a lump catching in his throat.

"Meg and I went straight to the catacombs as soon as we received your letter or explanation and we recovered all we could. The mob damaged your lair rather badly, Erik, but perhaps it is better that such as place is destroyed." She said softly, her eyes very warm. She slid the crate soundlessly across the table, over to Erik. "Here are the items we recovered. Scores mostly, a few withered roses, some clothes...Erik, you might not be aware of this, but we found a small not for you, left on the floor by your mirror. From-from Christine."

Antoinette opened the crate a foraged for a short moment, finding a small scrap of badly damaged paper that had clearly been torn from the corner of a music score. There, in small and neat handwriting, were the words Christine had left for him.

'Forgive me'.

Erik's heart smashed his ribcage. Just hearing her name tipped him out of his carefully controlled balance, let alone to read those desperate words that stung him right to the core of his pitiful, shattered heart. Once again he saw her screaming face, terrified of his own. Her eyes filled with tears of fear as she backed away from him, or the terror mixed with anger as he throttled Raoul before her very eyes. He couldn't shut her disgusted pleas for release from his beaten brain and tears sprung to his tired eyes.

"Erik?" Nadir said softly. "Erik, I think Antoinette would be deeply upset if her table were broken."

Erik suddenly snapped out of his spiral of gloom to realise he was gripping the table with such force he could have easily snapped a chunk off from the rest. He let go, dazed, feeling Nadir pat his arm and Antoinette take his hand in a surprisingly sisterly gesture. Megs blue eyes swam with heartfelt tears as she looked at him.

"You poor man. She- she doesn't realise what she has done to you, does she?" he heard the girl barely whisper, her voice so horrified and upset that he immediately felt awful for putting such a light on the whole escapade so that he looked innocent and Christine looked evil. It was so opposite to the truth.

Desperate to put matters right; he shook both Nadir and Antoinette off, pulling himself together in order to look Meg very directly and very seriously in the eyes.

"Meg, I am sure that you knew at the time just how scared Christine was. What I did to her, taking her like that...it was awful." He choked out, feeling wretched. "I should have stayed her angel, her friend and tutor. Had I stayed as that and not forced her to almost marry me...my only defence is that my mind, my very soul, was weak and raging with jealously and hatred towards that fop- but my pupil, my Christine, she suffered too much at my hands."

"And yet the very fact you can say all this proves you to be the opposite of the monster you proclaim yourself to be!" Meg cried, rushing to kneel at his feet and grasp his other hand. Her eyes were full of sincerity, and were firm with the choice she had made. "I swear, Erik, that you shall suffer no longer! You will cry and be so tormented by a dark and distant past no more! I will help you, Erik; I promise you that you will lead a happier life."

"But how can you promise such a thing?! How can ANYONE promise such a thing?" he barely managed to speak, his demand coming out more a croaky whisper. "Not even I can promise MYSELF a life, let alone a happy existence!"

At this point, Antoinette cut in. She re-took Erik's hand and stroked it softly, her wise old eyes both full of sense and care for the clearly anguished man sitting beside her.

"Erik, as my daughter says, the pain is over now." She spoke calmly, leaving no room for hysteria or contradiction. "You did the right thing and you should realise that. Leave the past behind, Erik. We are all here to help you, you know that."

Erik lapsed into silence, the words of protest he had meant to argue back with suddenly gone from his mind. How on earth had he, a monster, managed to claim these friends who honestly cared about his well-being? Why could these three people sitting around the same table as him somehow see past the ugly face when so many others had not?

Erik knew Antoinette and Meg spoke sense. He knew he should leave the past at rest and continue to live in the present, looking towards a golden future, but his heart still felt heavy and lifeless. He knew he could manage a life without his muse but the prospect still horrified him into despair.

But as Antoinette had assured him, letting Raoul take her away and letting her choose the man she truly loved had been the right thing. She would be happy with Raoul. That was all that mattered...as long as she was happy.

Erik would at least feel a little less the monster he was as long as she still smiled. That was all that mattered now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note: ****Hey guys, another update is here for you! If you're a Nadir fan you will probably like these next few chapters. I personally always liked Nadir; he's such a rock for poor Erik and always imagined him to be quite a funny guy. **

**Once again, thank you to my lovely reviewers Hugabouv and Dkk5; thank you soooo much for your support and comments! Also, thank you to anyone who followed or said this story was a 'favourite' of theirs; I'm glad you like it! Enough of me now, over to the characters of POTO...**

**Three- Those Who Have Seen Your Face  
(In the centre of Paris)**

The murky grey sky over Paris seemed ominous, threatening rain, and Nadir Khan ducked into a small boulangerie _[bakery] _as the downpour began; hammering down onto the mucky, cobbled streets. The air was humid and sticky and made Nadir wipe his forehead for the fifth time. Curse this European climate!

He moved swiftly and silently through the crowded shop, the heat and smell of enticing pastries and breads making his nose twitch, tempting him, but nothing could break his concentration on the task in hand. He eventually made it to the corner of the shop, pretending to be musing over the display of fresh baguettes, when really his interests lay in watching, through the window, a ponsy cafe across the street.

For in there, amongst the ornate architecture and the ostentatious furniture, Nadir knew Raoul and Christine de Chagny were dining alongside the Compte, Comptess and some other equally stuck up snobs.

Nadir was well trained to watch, to wait, to stay hidden. He could blend into any crowd as silently as a ghost, picking up on little details and occurrences that the common person would not even notice, let alone care about. The police had not posed an easy career In Persia and even after that skill enhancing experience Nadir had learnt so much more from following the Master of Darkness himself; Erik. To Nadirs mind, if Erik could slip through the shadows with a bright white mask on his face and still go unnoticed, he could too. It didn't help that the Vicompte knew him, from that ordeal in which they had nearly died together trying to rescue Christine, but he doubted that the little wuss would even remember him from that night; he remembered that Raoul had nearly died several times in fright.

Nadir sighed a little at the memory. It hurt him terribly whenever Erik was sad or angry and that night had been a sickening combination of both. Nadir had only intervened alongside Raoul for the sake of Erik and the poor girl. In truth, Raoul had been the last thing on his mind.

Nadir tried to find a comfortable position, sensing it would be a long afternoon. Luckily, the heavy rain meant that the little shop was so crowded the vendor could not actually see the little Persian man hunched into the small gap next to the window. Nadir zoned out the chatter and noise of the shop and focused only on the image of the cafe.

He had managed to leave Erik with the Girys, claiming he had shopping to do and wanted to visit an alchemist who would sell him a rare herbal extract. There was nothing Erik hated more than shopping with Nadir, as the Persian would engage all the shopkeepers in long and arduous conversations without even buying anything! Then they would have to charge around searching for something or other Nadir was sure he needed, before remembering that he had already bought it the day before. The threat of shopping had worked better than garlic and vampires.

Nadir was still a little unsure of why he had been so desperate to observe the de Chagny's. He had only discovered their presence in Paris this morning, after hearing some rather loud gentlemen discussing the fact as they strolled down the streets. He told himself it was morbid curiosity; to simply see how the two 'lovebirds' were getting on after the frightening events of three years ago. But, deep down, Nadir knew that his real reason was to make sure that the de Chagny's cleared off as soon as possible.

How would it affect Erik if one day he went out and came face to face with the woman that had turned him completely insane? Nadir didn't even want to contemplate the disastrous consequences of such a thing. All Nadir wanted for Erik was happiness. It wasn't an unrealistic wish; happiness for Erik would come with release and thus Nadir wanted the de Chagny's away from Erik as soon as-

Suddenly there was a commotion from the cafe, the doors bursting open and a group of finely dressed people spilling out like water from a dam. Nadir leapt up and fought through the crowds of the shop to make it across the street and to his carriage, clambering up to the driver's seat to get the best view possible of the scene. The rain had eased off to a misting drizzle, a few hesitant beams of sunlight struggling through the mass of grey cloud.

Raoul de Chagny came barrelling out of the cafe, carrying what appeared to be his unconscious wife, tailed by his irate parents and several other guests. Raoul was not handling his wife how Nadir had expected; his face was bright with embarrassment and pure seething anger as he all but dragged her along.

"Get me a bloody carriage you imbeciles, don't just gawp!" he bellowed, so Nadir seized the opportunity and spurred his horse on and rode the carriage right up to the red faced Vicompte. The drama of the moment meant that Raoul did not even glance at him, far too busy throwing his wife onto the seat of the carriage as his father tutted.

"Whatever is the matter with her?" the Compte demanded icily, absolutely no care in his cold voice. Raoul simply shook his head, looking on the verge of an explosion.

"How should I know? Losing the damn baby took a lot out of her, but she was in bed all of yesterday, Father-"

"People are staring, Raoul!"

"Well it's not my fault the stupid bitch fainted, is it?!"

"Just get her out of here. I'll deal with this mess."

Nadir almost gasped and had to hold himself back from smacking the two cold-hearted men with his whip. So Christine had been pregnant and had miscarried? Was it any surprise with these two villains throwing her around his blatant disregard?! A miscarriage would be blamed on her, though, in such an old fashioned and aristocratic family. Nadir shuddered delicately, and as Raoul was still arguing with his father, he turned around and peered into the carriage.

He felt sick when he saw her. She was a depressed, tired, worn down mess with a poorly concealed bruise and graze on her green tinged face. What on Earth had happened between these two passionate lovers to end so badly? Something serious had obviously gone wrong somewhere in the last three years- Nadir simply couldn't relate this bedraggled woman and that cold hearted man to the two sweethearts of three years ago, when they had been so desperately in love with one another it was sickly to look at.

Raoul got into the carriage with an irritated grunt towards his father, passing a small purse of money to Nadir without a word. He did not recognise that his driver was his fellow rescuer from the Opera. Nadir took the money silently.

"To the de Chagny residence, if you would." Raoul's voice was audibly strained.

"Might I suggest a hospital, Monsieur?" Nadir replied huskily, really exaggerating a French accent and hoping that he had actually said it correctly. "Your wife seems to be quite ill and the hospital is only-"

"The de Chagny residence, if you would." Raoul cut him off stonily, so Nadir left the matter and spurred the horse, setting off for the infamous townhouse, keeping his ears open for whatever Christine might say, should she wake up.

How interesting this all was.

As Nadir guided his horse through the thickening Paris streets, Christine was stirring on the seat, feeling dreadful and suddenly confused as she realised she was in a carriage. It smelt like herbs and Arabian perfumes, the sweet smell clearing her head and enabling her to open her eyes.

She struggled to sit up, almost toppling to the floor as the carriage lurched round a sudden corner. The driver was reckless, and the sharp turns weren't helping her dizziness. She glanced nervously at her husband's impassive face and realised once again, with sickening dread, that all was not well. She fought with her nausea to recall this morning; the rude maid barging in and yanking her up, throwing her into a freezing cold bath, hurtfully tugging at her hair as she pinned it mercilessly tightly into a bun and lacing her into a ridiculous dress. Then, without any explanation, she was shoved into a carriage, told only that seeing as last night she had been so unwell, she could attend a lunch instead.

She remembered very little from then on; only feeling too hot and dizzy in the cafe, or like she might vomit straight onto the table, before darkness had engulfed her and she had awoken in this carriage. Oh, she couldn't have, not again! With burning red cheeks, Christine knew that she had collapsed in public.

The sadness and exhaustion, not to mention her current state of health, were all causes piled up against her, leading to the inevitable conclusion of another disgraceful scene in public, bringing yet more shame onto the de Chagny family. Before the hot tears gathered in her eyes could streak down her face, the carriage came to an abrupt halt and Raoul turned to her with a hard look.

"You will get out of this carriage, you will go inside and you will rest. This lack of sense, this _embarrassment_ has got to stop! You are making a mockery of me and my family, Christine, and I will not allow it!"

Christine's cheeks burned. The driver could hear every word her husband was hissing at her with such venom it hurt. He made her feel so useless and unworthy, so much so that she would beg at his feet just to make him understand her feelings for once. It was not her fault that she had fainted, was it?!

The anger in her husband's eyes told her that to protest would be suicidal. She gingerly got up and stumbled out of the carriage, receiving no hand of help from Raoul as she nearly fell flat on her face. She breathed deeply, the air tasting sweet compared to the heavy atmosphere of the cafe or the overpowering scents in the carriage. She closed her eyes for one second, taking the time to let her swirling head slow down. The carriage suddenly pulled away again and Christine nearly burst into tears. Could her husband not even care enough to see her to the door?

Christine looked at the townhouse. It was expensive and modern, not at all to her tastes, and every last inch of it screamed of power. If she went inside, as instructed, a stern faced maid would tug her about , thinking all sorts of insults as she helped her young mistress unwillingly. She would be treated with contempt, not spoken to like a human being. Christine could not face it.

With one final glance at the townhouse she turned and strode down the street, holding her head high and trying desperately not to stumble. She adored the feeling of walking free, just as any normal person might. She adored the rush of the streets, the crowds, the carriages charging past in a surge of traffic. The markets were colourful and spilled goods onto the murky pavements, whilst children ran about them, playing loudly. Each sight or sound unlocked a part of her heart, making her feel _alive._

Now that she was back in the heart of Paris, in her own world, Christine knew that to die right now would be a welcome release. But the world had decided that she must live, yet had given her nothing to live for. Perhaps, she thought to herself, that is why the miscarriage has hurt me so. It was both painful, sad and crushing because that baby had been her last attempt at happiness. Finally, someone who would love her and crave her company. Someone that she could shower with love and life; someone who would have made life worth living. But now she had no-one; nothing to make this life hold any meaning.

No one imagined, as they saw the fine ladies in their rich gowns on the arm of a handsome man, that such a position could make a person feel so very alone. Christine had no friends, as they had all been deemed improper companions for a Vicomptess. Her once adoring husband had become a stranger, so lost in the duty of being Vicompte that he no longer even cared about her. Christine hoped, deep down, that Raoul still loved her and would be immensely sorry once all the stress was over. But here, in the reality of another Paris afternoon, such a hope seemed ridiculous.

Christine yearned for passion, for love; for someone that would set her heart beating faster. She wanted a man who would treasure and crave her, looking out for her always and giving her a love and friendship that was endless. She wasn't a fool; all couples left the honeymoon stage of perfection and bliss after a while; they had to, else real life would tear them apart. But with Raoul...the aftermath had been heartbreaking! Their marriage had become cold and dead.

Only one man had ever shown true compassion and love to her, but Christine had to stop herself thinking about him before she began to cry. Her Angel was dead now and she had contributed to that death. She had been as cruel and cold to him as Raoul now was to her, and Christine reminded herself of this harshly.

Her walk of freedom had taken her through the centre of Paris and now she had reached roads of houses, all fairly shabby to look at but so homely compared to her own house. As she began to walk past one row of the shabby, worn houses her heart gave a little twist. These houses looked familiar.

She passed a group of children playing in a small alleyway and suddenly it hit her. Of course! Madame Giry lived here, in that house on the end next to the alley! Christine remembered her first night with Madame Giry, feeling safe in that cosy house, finding a lifelong friend in Meg... Christine decided she needed to see an old friendly face right then.

Summoning every last ounce of courage left in her, she strode purposefully up to the door and, before she could change her mind, raised her hand and knocked on the door. She was both dreading and hoping that a Giry would answer.

Then-

"Hello, who- oh my goodness!"

Madame Giry threw open the door fully, coming outside and sweeping Christine up into a warm embrace, laughing in joy. Christine could not recall the last time someone had hugged her so warmly. She clung to the motherly figure.

"Madame-" she sniffled, but Madame Giry kissed her on both cheeks and tugged her inside, stroking her cheek gently.

"Christine, I'm so glad you've come to see us!" she beamed, dragging her inside and through to the kitchen, helping her to a seat and smoothing her hair in a fond, motherly gesture, "Meg! MEG! Come here now!"

Meg came running into the kitchen, nearly tripping over Pandora, one half of her face made up for her rehearsal later and one half oddly bare, frantic. She looked round for her Mother, obviously scared that something was wrong, but then she saw Christine and screamed at the top of her voice.

"Oh my goodness! It's you, it's you!" she fell forwards and landed at Christine's feet, stumbling up giggling to embrace her best friend with all her might, "How I've missed you, Christine, it's been far too long since we saw one another!"

Antoinette watched fondly as the two girls fussed and giggled and chattered away over tea, trying not to keep looking at that nasty bruise on Christine's face. The poor girl looked completely shattered and she had barely been able to stand when Antoinette opened the door. She was skinny and frail, so the rumours about her pregnancy were either false or...

Christine's cheeks were pink with all the laughter and conversation with Meg and the colour made her gaunt cheeks look a little less deathly. Antoinette could not believe that she had not come to them sooner!

In all the joy of seeing Christine again, and being lost in the worry of how she looked so ill, Antoinette had forgotten all about the disaster that was about to occur in the form of her other guest.

"Antoinette!" Erik's voice called as he came waltzing into the kitchen, "You're piano needs serious tuning and I-"

The room seemed to freeze; time stopped. He came in, suddenly saw Meg sitting there with Christine and his mouth dropped open into a perfect 'o' of horror.

Christine looked up to see who had just come in, still smiling, and her eyes grew very wide as she saw Erik standing there, his face almost as white as his mask. She seemed to register the fact that he was stood there before screaming and dropping the teacup she was holding. It smashed against the spotless floor in a small explosion of china and boiling hot brown liquid.

"Angel!" she gasped out, her voice trembling in obvious distress, "But- but you're- you're dead!"

Meg had to leap out of her seat to catch her as Christine fainted and fell from her chair, nearly smashing her head against the hard stone floor. Meg, once she had Christine firmly in her arms, looked up to her Mother with horrified eyes.

Antoinette looked back at her, equally distressed. She felt awful for forgetting her priority in all this and turned to poor, poor Erik to apologise and calm him down, perhaps make him quietly sit somewhere alone-

But when she turned, Erik had vanished into thin air.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Here is another update for you all! Nadir is once again being his usual awesome self and a great friend to poor Erik, who I think if left to his own devices would probably go on a rampage and do something he would regret... **

**Here's a HUGE thank you to any followers/people who have 'fav-ed' this story and to my awesome reviewers; Tiana Huntress, icanhearthedrums, Hugabouv and Dkk5. Now I need to be quiet and pass you over to the characters of POTO...**

**Four- Down Once More to the Dungeon of My Black Despair  
(Nadirs home, Paris)**

The people on the busy Parisian streets would never have guessed that chaos had erupted inside that small, presentable looking house near the middle of a terraced row. They continued to hurry on past, too busy trying to get home and out of the persistent rain shower that was now lashing the defenceless ground without mercy. Aside from the thundering of rain and the clatter of horse's hooves, all was calm.

Inside was a completely different story. Nadir ran his hands frantically through his wet depleting hair over and over, completely horrified by the scene he had arrived home to. In truth, he had never been so scared of Erik in all his life.

His old friend was, in short, going completely mad.

When Nadir had come inside, he had been greeted by an awful, animalistic crying that made Nadir honestly think a cat had gotten in and was trapped in his fireplace. So he had dumped his purchases, ran straight into his parlour and found Erik tearing around in a complete frenzy, knocking furniture over and yelling curses at everything and nothing. Nadir had obviously tried to calm him down and find out what on EARTH had caused this frightening outburst but Erik had fallen into complete insanity.

Even after some ten minutes of this madness Erik was still raging; ranting hysterically in an unknown language, having ripped his mask and wig off and hurled them across the room to Nadirs feet. Nadir knew that if this continued Erik would probably need to be sedated so that he didn't hurt himself in this breakdown. It was heartbreaking to watch to say the least, and after another agonising minute Nadir decided enough was enough.

"Erik, for heaven's sakes, if you do not calm down and TELL me what the problem is I will go and find a doctor and I will bring him here to sedate you!" he bellowed, worried for the sake of his belongings as well as the wellbeing of his friend; Erik was pounding his fist onto the table he had brought home from Persia without mercy.

Suddenly Erik's angered tears choked up into gasping sobs as he collapsed to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking himself to and fro over and over in an endless rhythm. Grateful beyond all reason for this small miracle, Nadir dared to go and sit next to Erik, putting an arm around the cloaked, shaking shoulders and trying to ignore how horrid his deformity looked covered in tears and self-inflicted scratches.

"Come on, old friend." He soothed in a gentle voice, making Erik choke a little on the sobs catching in his throat. "We've been through worse, I'm sure."

Nadir was honestly fearful that this was the end to his friend's sanity. It was a miracle that Erik had not had such a breakdown on such a scale before, always managing to change the almost childlike sadness to anger and cope that way. Nadir knew, with sickening certainty, that when the breakdown did eventually happen it would cause irreversible mental damage to his friend and that would be the end.

"Oh Nadir, it was- oh it was so awful, I was completely unaware that she- oh dear God, help me Nadir, we must leave this cursed city tonight!" he gasped out, the sobs slowly easing and the sense returning to his voice. Nadir almost passed out in relief.

But he was confused. Erik had been at Antoinette's all day, and should have still been there. Surely the 'she' Erik had referred to had not been Meg or Antoinette? Even if it was, Nadir doubted they could cause such hysteria in his friend.

"Why must we leave tonight?" he asked in a calm voice, dreading that the question would set him off again.

"She- she _knows_ Nadir, she knows that I live-she saw me and-and she called me _Angel_- I am scared I will do it again, Nadir, I will do it all again and I cannot help it!" he cried out, and Nadir had to stop himself from rolling his eyes as the tears began to pour. "I cannot be near her! I cannot, I cannot!"

Nadir was all set to tell Erik to calm down, but then he replayed the words in his head. _She knows I live? I will do it all again? _ The realisation of who 'she' was fell on him like a tonne of bricks.

"You mean Christine?!" He gasped, feeling his mouth drop open. "You mean to say that you met Christine, in Antoinette's house?!"

"Who else, you blockhead!" Erik suddenly dropped the hysteria like a hot iron, his face twisting into an angry scowl as he stood up sharply and began to pace like a madman. "I'll bet it was a trick, a trick set up by Antoinette to turn me insane! We must go, Nadir, we must go NOW! I cannot be in a city where she remains, where she knows I live!"

"Erik." Nadir sighed, sinking into the nearest armchair with a worried frown, despairing for his friend's anger. He knew that he should never have agreed to come to Paris. Never. He should have demanded they stay in England or Italy, leaving wretched Christine Daae or de Chagny or whatever the stupid girl called herself now well away from Erik. "This was no evil trick, this is all an accident. You mustn't be so angry and you needn't panic."

Erik lapsed into painful silence, his anguished yellow eyes like orbs of pain as they stared at Nadir; a desperate child pleading for help.

"You have _no idea_ of the feelings she stirs in me." He whispered, pain throbbing in every syllable. "And I will NOT let them enter her life and ruin her happiness! I will be strong, Nadir, I will not let my monstrous ways hurt her again. You must help me, you cannot let me fail her again- oh dear God, how can this be?"

Nadir could not catch the fearful expression before it flooded his face. He bit his lip, nodding, reaching for the mask and wig at his feet and passing them wordlessly to Erik, who was now trying to calm himself down. He felt deeply troubled by the knowledge of Christine's unhappiness. Should he- no, it would surely be wrong to tell Erik. It would only serve to complicate matters and send him into a frenzy to kill Raoul- which would not necessarily be a bad thing, but nor was it right.

No, it was better that Erik imagined her to be happy, even if the reality of the situation differed greatly.

"I will die Nadir. I am sure of it." Erik said miserably, all the anger faded to defeat in the moment. "Why can my past never remain buried and forgotten? Surely I have suffered enough misery for all of Paris in my life- I will only escape this tortuous existence through death."

Erik saw Nadir's troubled eyes harden. The little Persian man was obviously preparing himself to help him fight, but Erik just felt so tired of fighting. What was even the point in living? He would never find love, or happiness. Even a tolerable, painless existence seemed too much to achieve.

Now Christine knew he was alive, it threw the worst possible light on this hopeless situation. Before, when everyone save a few thought him truly dead and gone, Erik had been able to tell himself that he had at last done the right thing. He had been able to face the fact that his supposed death had closed the whole escapade rather cleanly and that he physically couldn't go to Christine again, because he was supposed to be dead. It had been an excuse to fall back on when he had been at his lowest; dark nights on that voyage with Nadir where he had been all set to flee back to Paris, hunt Christine down and claim her at last. And over the three years without her, he had started to believe that he was capable of finally _living_ without her.

But now there was the shattering feeling of all hope being truly lost. For when she thought him dead, Erik had been able to keep that one tiny hopeful part of his brain that had told him Christine would have come back, had he not been 'dead'. But now she knew he was alive and still she would not return to him. All the hopes he had dared not to voice, not even to Nadir, had been well and truly pulverised by the events of today-

Erik stopped. His brain, now out of the spiral of hysteria, had cleared and he could think properly again with clear focus. He struggled to recall her face from earlier, how she had looked before she had fainted...he recalled how Nadir had looked so oddly troubled when he had spoken of Christine's "happiness"...and then he stood up. Hysteria well and truly gone, eyes blazing with anger, he slowly but surely rounded in on Nadir, whose eyes widened in terror. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had reached out dragged Nadir from his chair, pinning him to the wall. His voice was low and threatening.

"You little liar!" he hissed, feeling so out of control he could barely breathe. "How could you, Daroga? HOW COULD YOU?!"

Nadir looked as white as a sheet as he struggled to get out of Erik's mad grasp.

"I don't know what you-" he began to say; his voice a little shaky but somehow still mostly calm.

"YOUE KNEW SHE WAS HERE!" Erik bellowed his wild accusations, fire dancing in those endless yellow eyes. When Nadir looked even more uncomfortable, Erik realised with a twist of fiery anger that his suspicions were horribly accurate. "You-you knew she was here, you _knew_! And you saw her, didn't you Khan? You saw her _wasted_ eyes, her _haggard_ face, her _near lifeless_ body and you told me NOTHING! _You let me see MY Christine, so ill and worn down, and that image will forever burn my helpless mind! HOW COULD YOU?!"_

"Erik, you s-said if she were happy that you would be!" Nadir hastily explained, trying not to tremble at the same time as convincing himself that Erik would not harm such an old friend.

"BUT SHE IS NOT HAPPY!" Erik cried. "And is that ME who has done that?! Is it her idiotic BASTARD of a husband?! No? Is it some horrid illness that will kill my-"

"ERIK!" Nadir shouted, cutting off the mad rant with undisputable finality. Erik looked a little stunned, almost as if he could not comprehend the words that had just spilled from his mouth. "I will tell you...I will tell you all I know. But you must promise not to get so angry again! Put me down, you villain, this is my best waistcoat!"

Erik seemed to see reason, or at least Nadir thought so, as he was suddenly relapsed and dropped to the floor, his knees buckling a little with the impact of the floor and the relief that Erik had not gone ahead and strangled him. As much as he wanted to, he could not be completely angry with his poor, tormented friend. He was, after all, unscathed and on closer inspection, so was his waistcoat.

"Just...just tell me." Erik snapped irritably, falling back into an armchair and massaging his temples as if he had a headache. With his mask and wig back on, he looked far less vulnerable, so Nadir could feel a little easier with telling him the undiluted truth. "But if you lie to me...I cannot even express how much I will loathe you, old friend, if you lie to me again."

Nadir had to roll his eyes. Oh the drama, he thought sarcastically as he made a point of brushing down his waistcoat.

"Christine has had a miscarriage, very recently." He explained in a level voice, keeping a stern eye on Erik. He told himself that he would not mention the bruise or the graze on her face. That unsavoury fact would only make matters worse. "I am not sure of her other problems, though I am sure there are some, but I know for certain that she lost her baby."

Erik gagged. He wasn't sure what was worse; the fact that Christine had been impregnated with that useless swine's offspring, or the fact that she had gone through the horror of losing such a child. He ached for the pain of his poor, poor Christine and the feeling of sadness put out the fire of anger and made him realise what a fool he had been, again.

"Thank you for telling me, Nadir." He said quietly, the anger well and truly gone from his system as he took another shaky breath. "I'm sorry for being such a...such a ..."

"For being so typically you. I know. Apology accepted." Nadir nodded, seeing the relief flood his friends face. It had been horrible for him to have to witness the aftermath of today's disastrous events, and so Nadir could not even begin to imagine what the surprise encounter had made Erik feel. He wished with all his heart that he could simply take Erik away from the Vicomptess right now, hopefully leaving behind all the memories for good, but Nadir knew he couldn't do that, not now.

Erik needed a home, something he had never really had before, and he also needed to learn how he could confront this problem and finally put the memories of Christine to rest for good. Running away would only serve to make the problem ten times worse.

"I think that I need to go to Antoinette and tell her that you are alright, you old fool." Nadir said as he stood up and reached for his coat, seeing Erik look up from where he had put his head into his hands. "She will be worried; no doubt, as I assume you fled the place without a word of warning?"

Erik nodded and for a reason he did not know, Nadir smiled.

"I don't expect you to have to go out again today, so I'll go alone. Go and play my beaten up piano if you like, or have a sleep. Just...just don't dwell on it, Erik. These things have a habit of working themselves out and before you know it you'll be laughing at yourself for being such a diva."

Erik cracked a smile at Nadirs casual insult, nodding a little and quite suddenly reaching out to shake Nadirs hand. This gesture took the Persian by surprise, but it made him feel stupidly happy all the same.

"Thank you." Erik said in a tight voice, making Nadir want to ruffle his hair or something equally patronising. "You are a great help to me, Daroga. I would be long dead if it weren't for you and your annoyingly insistent optimism."

Nadir was not quite sure what to say to such a comment, so he simply nodded before Erik swept off into another room. Time to visit Antoinette...again.

Nadir felt slightly sick to the stomach at the thought of seeing Christine again. As much as he disliked the girl for all the emotions she had stirred within his friend, he knew that it really wasn't her fault and would wish what she had gone through on no-one. She was depressed, there was no doubt about it, but that bruise and the way Raoul had handled her today was worrying. Nadir didn't even want to think that the bruise could have possibly come from Raoul...and yet the idea seemed more and more likely by the second.

There was, of course, also the fact that he didn't want to be bombarded with questions regarding Erik. He appreciated that she had just come face to face with a man she thought dead for three years, but he didn't like the idea of being interrogated like a criminal. He wondered, with morbid curiosity, as to how it had even happened. It was a scene he was glad to have missed.

The walk from his own house to Antoinette's was mercifully short, as even thought the summer sun had not yet left the late afternoon Paris skies, Nadir felt a little cold. He would never feel warm in Paris, not after a lifetime in the gorgeously warm orient; a world of fire, sun and spices. He could never understand why some thought that this drab, grey city was attractive. He preferred colour and vibrancy to all this gothic stonework that, to be honest, he found rather disturbing. Especially gargoyles; Nadir hated gargoyles.

Antoinette greeted him with obvious distress, inviting him inside with frantic descriptions of the unhappy reunion already spilling from her mouth. She was understandably distraught, tears in her usually calm eyes as she led Nadir through to the parlour.

"Oh, I am such a fool!" she wept, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "I was so caught up in seeing poor, sweet Christine again that I completely forgot that Erik was even here- he is just so quiet, Nadir, I sometimes forget he is even in the room, let alone upstairs! He just waltzed straight in, suspecting nothing of course, and he saw her sat there with Meg. She screamed in shock more than anything, fainting and falling off her chair, and when I turned around to apologise he had gone! Vanished like a ghost! It was truly horrible to behold, Nadir, and I was so worried that he would do something rash...is he alright?!"

"He came to my home, Antoinette, don't worry." He soothed, unsure of how else to calm the crying woman. "But I thought I should tell you that if you should find that we have left Paris without notice, do not be surprised. It won't do him any good to become as ill and depressed as he was last time; he nearly killed himself. I am his friend, Antoinette, and I only have his best interests at heart. I will try to make him confront his problems and stay here in Paris, but I do not need to tell you how stubborn he can be sometimes."

Antoinette took all this in and nodded, placing her head in her hands.

"Tell him how sorry I am, Nadir, please." She asked in a beaten voice. "I feel so terrible for the pain he must be in now...oh why did I have to be so clueless?!"

"You are not to blame. Erik certainly doesn't blame you; in fact, he accused me of being the cause." Nadir said lightly, making Antoinette smile ruefully at Erik's unpredictable ways. She sat and calmed down whilst Nadir made her a cup of strong tea, which she had just started to drink when Meg came into the parlour.

She looked drained and tired, mumbling something about a missed rehearsal as she stumbled in to flop down upon a chair. One half of her face was covered with makeup, most of it smudged with tear tracks, and the other half was bare and exhausted.

"How is she?" Antoinette asked, desperate for good news. Nadir could only assume that the 'she' was Christine, so turned to listen intently. He sank back in disappointment as Meg's face became angry.

"Well, apart from her miscarriage and lack of care, she is covered with bruises." She said in a tight, angry voice, obviously upset. Nadir nearly gasped. So that bruise on her face was not the only mark...dear God, what had Raoul _done_ to his poor wife?! "Huge, ugly bruises all over her legs, her chest, her back...they are from beatings. Beatings, Mother! Her evil HIDEOUS excuse of a husband has beaten her over and over so she resembles a patchwork quilt! But you know all she said when I asked her about them, Mother? She said that he had been drunk at the time and they were accidents! How can she defend him, Mother, how can he have done that to her?"

Antoinette held open her arms and Meg fell into them, dissolved into tears as her Mother cradled and soothed her. Nadir simply watched in complete and utter disbelief. Was it any wonder she had lost her baby and looked so ill? The poor woman was living a life of hell, unable to escape, and it was slowly but surely killing her.

For one fleeting moment, Nadir found himself wishing that the stupid girl had chosen Erik and that he had allowed her to stay, not told her to leave him. If there was one thing that Erik would never do, it was to hurt Christine. He would never have laid a hand on her, unless to embrace her. Even then, the oaf had always been so sure that he was not worthy of such things.

But if Erik found out that Raoul had beaten Christine...Nadir gulped at the thought. If Erik did find out, Raoul de Chagny would be a dead man.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello again, here's today's update for you all! This is probably the last of my daily updates, as I am going to be back into my normal busy routine again and I won't be able to update every day. However, I am aiming for at the very least two updates a week, hopefully more if I can squeeze them in! This story is all pre-written, so it's only a matter of finding time to actually edit and upload them.**

**Thank you to my amazing reviewers; Hugabouv, TMara, Dkk5 and OreoCoral. Reviews are always appreciated and thank you so much for taking the time to comment, it means a lot! Sooo...back over to poor old Erik, I think...**

**Five- Music of the Night  
(Nadirs home, Paris)**

Erik couldn't sleep. He had lain there in that irritatingly uncomfortable bed for several hours now, still no closer to drifting off into the sweet release of nothing that he so desired. Each toss or turn made the bed groan in protest, and it reached a point where Erik was writhing around so much there was no break in the ugly squeaking.

It was normal, of course, for him to have trouble sleeping. The dreams of his past would attack his defenceless mind and would torture him to the point of screaming himself awake, but this time it was different. It wasn't the fear of his past that stopped him from falling into sleep; it was the horror of the present and the dread for the future.

First of all, there was the nagging fact that Erik knew his little Persian friend was, once again, hiding something from him. It would have been obvious to a deaf and dumb beggar; the way Nadir had returned from the Giry's all shifty eyed and nervous, lapsing into unexplained bouts of silent thinking and not hearing when he had been asked a question. The frown lines of worry were starting to imprint themselves on his otherwise smooth face and it was driving Erik mad.

But each time he reached the unbearable point, each time he slammed his fist down and decided enough was enough, the memory of his outburst from earlier flooded back into his brain and he felt so ashamed that he could not ask the questions perched on the edge of his tongue.

He decided now, laying here in the empty darkness, that he would withhold the interrogations until he truly could not bear it. The shame of his actions...dragging Nadir over to the wall and _pinning him there_...Erik shuddered.

Second, of course, where the thoughts he had tried so hard to get out of his head; thoughts of Christine. He had reached wits end with the horror of the images in his brain; her gaunt face from earlier, her lifeless eyes, how she had looked so weak...he found himself closing his eyes only to see her face. At one point he had become so maddened by the various images that refused to go away that he had gone foraging in Nadirs cupboards, swigging various potions and lotions and disgusting herbal extracts that had only made him be sick, not knock him unconscious as he had desired.

Even now his mind refused to stop racing. Why had she looked so ill? Why had she looked closer to death than life?

Erik knew little of babies or pregnancy, never having needed to know about such things, but he did know that whilst a miscarriage was a major medical complication, it would not make a healthy pregnant woman, who everyone described as 'glowing', suddenly become frail, unhealthy and lifeless. Especially as Nadir had described the miscarriage to have happened recently.

Erik did not want to imagine that his Christine could be suffering from other ailments, but how else could anyone explain her condition? There was something else going on; a longer term problem that was slowly destroying the woman he loved with all his wasted heart. The idea was enough to make Erik spiral down into depression again.

And finally, for some insane reason, Erik could feel music bubbling away inside him, pulsating around his body with each heartbeat. He knew he had to play this music that was coursing through his veins like a drug and he knew that he had to play it now.

The melodies were dark and powerful, clashing chords and an angry tune intertwined to tell the story of his own emotions as he lay here, tortured by all he had witnessed. Amongst the fierce anger of these melodies rose the sweeter and yet sadder notes of an aria that he could practically feel dancing in his fingertips. The notes he felt were oh so haunting and so desperately sad that he could not bear to let it slip from his mind. He had to write it down.

Leaping up from the pitiful excuse for a bed, Erik walked soundlessly out of his room and down the narrow stairs to the piano. He was in a trance, being navigated by the pull of music and the thought of playing it to release the torrent of emotion that was wreaking havoc inside him.

He had the eyes of a cat, easily making his way around the obstacle course of furniture and over to Nadir's pathetic piano. It was a pitiful instrument to say the least; well past its prime and in serious need of maintenance, not to mention tuning. But it would satisfy him tonight in this midnight purge of melody; it wasn't as if he had any other options.

The night itself was inspiration to the genius inside Erik, the mysterious shroud only serving to heighten rather than hinder his musical ability. The shadows, the moonlight, the eerie sensation that cloaked almost everyone...it was a time to lose the masquerade and unleash the full power , brilliance and often the harsh reality of the beauty underneath.

Erik sat at the piano, spreading his long delicate fingers over the creamy contrast of the keys, closing his eyes and savouring the familiar texture beneath his fingers. The feel of a piano was the closest Erik had ever come to feeling as if he were truly home. Then, without delay, he let the music lead him, arpeggios and chords and trills of melody all coming together and soaring up into the night. He followed the journey of his music; through the moments of triumph to the agonising depths of despair, before stopping and staring at the keys for a moment, breathless with emotion.

Then in a dizzying rush he grabbed the paper piled on top of the piano, scribbling notes, phrases, anything at all onto the expanse of blank white paper, filling them up with anything at all to help him with this musical explosion. As the hours of darkness all merged into one, he laboriously copied out the final scores with his elegant script and played them over and over, the notes etching into his heart forever.

The angry songs of pain and hatred let his own anger seep out of his heart and into the music, soothing him into a state of calm as the melody rolled and peaked. As the heartbreakingly sweet notes of the aria fell into place his tears dropped onto the scores, leaving their eternal mark of a composer who lived his music. The melodies grew softer and softer and his state of mind grew more at ease with them.

It was only when Nadir came into the room loudly, crashing and banging as he yawned and looked disgruntled, that Erik wearily looked up from the spread of keys to see the morning sunshine streaming in through the window. He had survived the night with music.

Nadir looked groggy and irritated, flopping into the nearest chair with a face resembling a bear that had been dragged out of hibernation a week too early.

"Erik." He moaned, reaching for a small bottle and rubbing something herbal into his temples as he grimaced. "I love your music; I truly do. But anyone would hate what they love when it keeps them up all night! Please, I implore you, can you not compose in the daytime?!"

"Night-time is my inspiration. My music is the music of the night, after all; moonlit melodies, darkness in chords, shadows in arpeggios...in short, no. I will not compose in the day." Erik replied simply, standing up and stretching as his muscles complained. In his musical frenzies he never felt the ache of being sat for too long, or the pangs of hunger and thirst. That was why he enjoyed music so much.

Nadir groaned.

"Please, old friend, kindly refrain from playing anymore of those loud songs that you were bashing out last night. My head is throbbing so much it feels like it might explode any minute." He moaned again, making Erik's mouth hint at a smile.

"I thought I was the diva in this relationship." He said mildly, making Nadir burst out in surprised laughter until the noise made his head pound again.

"You need to sleep, Erik." Nadir chided him as he rubbed his head pulling an agonised face. "You might like to act it, but you are not nocturnal. You'll become ill if you carry on like this."

Erik didn't bother to reply to Nadir's motherly fussing. He was nocturnal of sorts; the night was his domain. It had been the blissful period of being hidden from leering eyes, a time of quiet, when the jeering crowds that flocked to gawp at the supposed Devils Child would finally stagger off to drink themselves to oblivion, leaving him in relative peace. Night time had also been the time to sit in the tunnel beside the chapel and sing in duet with Christine, or to watch her with amazed eyes as she sang onstage, but he hastily brushed this point aside.

"Anyway, how can you possibly enjoy a time of day if you never experience all it has to offer?" Nadir asked, reaching for his boots and pulling them on with obvious discomfort. "You are a human being Erik, albeit a very stubborn one, and you are perfectly capable of acting like a normal human being. You have a discreet mask, so use it. We'll go out right now; we'll buy some bread or do something else so typically Parisian."

Erik rolled his eyes. Nadir's irrepressible optimism was starting to get on his nerves, as already the strain of no sleep was starting to catch up with him and make him irritable. He had no desire to go out and about like an overly cheery buffoon, strolling down a busy street with a ridiculous smile plastered on his face. But the bright beams of sunshine streaking in through the window were warm on his skin, and the idea of walking about in that sort of warmth did appeal after a night of melancholy melodies...

Perhaps, for once, Nadir was right and the sunshine would do him some much needed good?

Reluctant to admit his friend's effect on him, Erik grimaced and stalked off to put on his cloak, and donned his discreet mask with an angry sigh. It sat uncomfortably on his face and he already felt his skin begin to flare up against the rigid texture. He needed to wear it in and let his face get used to it, but every time he did wear it his sensitive skin would be rubbed raw and ache for what felt like an eternity.

"Good!" Nadir smiled, happy when Erik came back into the room ready to go out, even thought his face was like thunder. "I had a thought; we could buy pastries and surprise Antoinette with them."

Erik froze and his hands clenched into angry fists.

"No." He hissed, jaw rigid.

"For heaven's sakes, Erik." Nadir sighed. "_She_ might not even be there. And even if she is, you will have to confront this problem at some point else it will never go away. You can't ignore this situation."

"Oh, yes I can." Erik replied acidly. "And I intend to."

"Man up and stop behaving like a child." Nadir replied, harshly for him. "You can't be daunted by her, surely. You were the fearsome yet fearless Opera Ghost!"

"Yes, Daroga, why don't we examine once again where that delightful accolade took me?" Erik snapped, his anger starting to build up again with Nadir's ridiculous expectations. "I will go on this little walk with you to a shop, to satisfy your apparent need to baby me, and then I will go home. You can go ahead and be the socialite of us two and go calling on the Giry's and their...guest, if you so wish, but I will not be joining you."

Nadir groaned in exasperation and was all set to fight back, but Erik simply glared at him and motioned with a swift hand gesture that they should leave now.

Erik did not walk like the other pedestrians, who were lazily ambling along as if they had no other care in the world. He strode on as if he had a purpose, studiously ignoring the other Parisians and the sights, wishing that he could just skulk off to some far-away place and never return. He glanced behind him at Nadir, who was about two paces behind him and struggling to keep up with Erik's aggressive stride. He would never lose this insistent parental figure, it seemed. He rolled his eyes and slowed down a fraction so that Nadir could walk beside him. What was the Persian even thinking, encouraging him to go to the very place that Christine would be?

The horror of her poor face hit him harder than ever and unprepared for the feeling washing through his veins, Erik stopped very suddenly. He mustn't, he KNEW that he mustn't-

Suddenly though, he found himself saying;

"I think I will walk by the Seine instead. I'll meet you at your home, later."

He then turned around and began to stride off in the opposite direction so quickly he was nearer to running. He heard Nadir's shouts of concern and then his curses as Erik blanked him, he saw the turned heads of curious pedestrians as they brushed shoulders with him as he continued to propel himself along without any intention of stopping. He could no longer stop himself; he physically wouldn't be able to stop his legs as they powered him along.

He had to see her face again. Perhaps the horrifying lifelessness of her face had been a trick of the light, or perhaps a figment of his distressed mind? Could he have dreamed up the gaunt cheeks and the frail body? Surely that had to be it, she couldn't be so shattered, she couldn't be...

Erik didn't care about decorum or the miserable throb of his broken heart anymore. He broke into a run, tearing down the back streets of Paris like a bloodhound on the scent, his racing heart reaching a crescendo as he came out opposite Antoinette's home.

He charged into the alleyway that it sat next to, thinking for only a split second before he decided he could climb the wall and look in the window. He was in such a state he was nearly crying, feeling the rough brickwork of the wall and the sharp edges of bits of stone and grit. Just once glance; nothing more. One fleeting glance to satisfy this ache, this burning ache, to prove his own mind wrong. He had to, he had no choice. Just one glance and then he would leave. One glance.

He drew up close to the wall and was about to lift a foot to haul himself up, but then he caught a glimpse of the people walking past, looking at him with quizzical eyes. Erik had to step back from the wall, surveying the people and the house and the conditions with critical eyes before nearly punching the wall in frustration.

It was too obvious in broad daylight. If he climbed the wall now he would only be dragged down and hounded by the other Parisians who were still stealing glances at him from over their shoulders. Breathing hard, he turned around and walked down the alleyway, running his hands through his wig.

He would come back tonight. He would climb that wall and glance in at his Christine and he would see that she was perfectly alright. Just one glance. Nothing more.

He began to stride back the way he came, ignoring the throb of his desperate heart.

Meanwhile, all was not well inside the infamous de Chagny townhouse. The Compte de Chagny was irritated to put it mildly. As he raged around his office, throwing anything he could lay his hand on at the wall, he cursed himself for not reigning in his brainless son.

It was bad enough that the stupid boy had married that wretch three years ago. Of all the noble blooded ladies, of all the carefully selected women, he had gone ahead and tied himself to a chorus girl from the opera, who was probably a prostitute in her spare time! But no, despite his warnings, Raoul had gone ahead with the marriage anyway, being his usual spoilt self.

Raoul had promised him that she would learn to behave like a proper de Chagny. He had sworn it. But no, now the simpleton had embarrassed the whole family several times in public and had also lost a potential de Chagny heir. The Compte let out an enraged roar as a paperweight went sailing through the air and smashed into a bookcase. Could the stupid creature do nothing right?

But now his starry eyed son was starting to come down from that cloud he was on, seeing all her flaws and imperfections. Too late, the Compte thought angrily, why couldn't you have seen her stupidity before you married the girl?!

At first they had been a sickening couple, so sentimental and acting at being lovers with sappy words and ridiculous demonstrations that had been inappropriate and expensive. The wedding itself had been painful to watch, seeing his son tying himself to that common witch-! And now the worthless girl was missing, or rather she had decided to go sauntering off somewhere without a word of warning or consideration for anyone but her miserable self!

The Compte was on the edge of an explosion. He had reached his limit with Christine de Chagny, and now he intended to do something about it.

He sat down behind his desk and gritted his teeth with an audible snap, before digging around in his desk drawers for some paper and ink, as he had thrown the rest across the room. He ripped the ink pot open and dabbed his quill in ferociously, the evil look on his face one of maddened pleasure. He began to scratch at the page, writing at a mile a minute, red faced and boiling with fury as his words angrily slashed out onto the creamy white paper.

'_...a large sum of money will of course be provided. I don't care what you do, I don't care how you do it, just get rid of her. If you're going to send her off somewhere for God's sakes make sure she will remain there, silent. If you kill her, make it look like an accident or there will be a scandal, and I will not be helping you if you are stupid enough to be discovered. I am placing a huge amount of trust in you and you will know that I am not a forgiving man. She is in places unknown at present, but when I do find her I will alert you immediately. Pick the right moment, deal with her and then disappear. I don't want any second attempt nonsense; you must do it right._

_Understand this, if you take in anything I say; Christine de Chagny must be disposed of soon. Don't let me down this time, or it will be the last time you do anything at all.'_

He finished the letter with an angry signature, sealing it with a grim look of satisfaction on his cruel face, before passing it wordlessly to a footman. It would reach the intended by the end of the day, and soon the problem would be gone and his son could at last marry someone decent.

He crushed the quill in his huge fist. Goodbye Prima Donna, he thought with a small sly smile, your show is over.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Well, it turns out I had enough time today to actually upload this chapter! Yay! Another massive thank you to my brilliant reviewers; Hugabouv, Dkk5, TMara, icanhearthedrums, emilovesyouxp and a guest too...WOAH! You guys can't see the smile on my face when I read your reviews, but I can assure you they make this all very rewarding! Now over to Erik and Christine...*smiles knowingly*... **

**Six- In Sleep He Sang To Me, In Dreams He Came  
(The Giry Residence, Paris)**

Christine sat heavily down onto the edge of the bed in the small spare room in Madame Giry's home, trying not to feel too depressed. This would be her second night away from Raoul and her real life, and whilst it was such a sweet relief to be somewhere other than that unfeeling townhouse, Christine was already dreading the idea of going back. What would Raoul say to her? Or, much worse, what would he _do_ to her?

Pushing the worries aside in the hope that she would have a good night's sleep, Christine slowly began to braid her thick brown curls, finding solace in the simple task that reminded her of readying herself for a performance, tying her thick hair back and away from her face to dance with all her ballerina friends on the Opera Populaire stage. Smiling a little at those fond memories of days filled with giggling and gossiping, she got under the sheets and laid her head back against the pillow, adoring the rustic warmth of the blankets instead of the usual expensive but cold bed clothes she had to endure at home.

As she lay there, hoping for the sweet release of sleep to come quickly, she wished she had a lullaby. That was how it had been in Sweden, when her father had still been alive. He had treated her to one hilariously funny or wondrously exciting story each night as well as a soft, sweet lullaby to soothe her into her dreams. The best night's sleep always came after music for Christine.

She could almost hear her Father's warm voice now, making her laugh or jump or smile for all she was worth with his stories and his music.

"_Come on then, Christine, what will it be? Adventure, romance, perhaps a scary story?"_

"_Not scary stories, Father...tell me about the Angel of Music!"_

"_Aha! Little Lotte and her Angel of Music- yes, the Angel of Music comes to those who practise their tunes, young lady! So where were we? Little Lotte had a difficult choice to make, it seemed. Playing with dolls or to practise her tunes so that the Angel would-"_

"_Father, is the Angel of Music real? Will he really come to me and teach me?"_

"_Of course! An Angel of Music, Christine, will give you the music of heaven. When I am in heaven, I will send the Angel of Music to continue to tutor you and to guide you."_

"_Will he have wings and a halo?"_

"_Ah, Christine, who can say? He could be as glorious as the sun itself as it rises over those mountains, or he could be as plain as you or I. All that will matter, little one, is his music and his care for you. As long as he fulfils his duty to give you the music of heaven and to care for you always, he will have met his duties."_

"_You're like an Angel of Music, Father. Can the Angel be like you?"_

"_In what sense, little one?"_

"_A man. A normal man."_

"_Perhaps, if he were to guide you in music and care for you. Maybe, Christine, we all have the Angel of Music within us and we must simply find it. Now, we must find out what Little Lotte will choose!"_

Christine wiped away a few stray tears at the memory of her father, who had always been a little bit mad but hilariously funny and an outstanding musician. She only wished he were still alive to advise her in what to do now. He had always known how to advise her before, as if her were an Oracle, and she had come to depend on his judgement even at her young age. When he had died her world had been thrown into a turmoil that she still had not surfaced from. She doubted she ever would.

Sighing heavily, she rolled over to face the window, watching the huge silver moon as it hung in the darkened sky, surrounded by wisps of translucent clouds. It was truly beautiful to watch, and reminded her of a night over three years ago, on the rooftop of the Opera House. That night, amongst the glittering snow and the mean faced gargoyles, Christine had poured out her soul onto Raoul and he had in turn promised her his love forever. Back then, he had been her saviour, the knight in the shining armour that her Father had avidly described in his stories. He had been so kind to her, so passionate...so why did he have to be so cruel now? Christine angrily threw the thoughts to the deepest corner of her mind and squeezed her eyes shut, fed up of broken promises and pointless dreams.

Outside, on the darkened street and concealed by shadow, a man all in black was loitering in the alleyway next to the Giry's house. He glanced up at the lonely moon, his eyes swimming with sadness and burning with indecision. It was Erik, waiting like a trodden on dog for his chance to finally see Christine. He was desperate to convince his frantic mind that she was perfectly alright and happy. He waited, practically bouncing up and down in the anxiety; his patience would soon wear down and he would not be able to hold himself back from climbing that wall and glancing in at his Christine, just once. He told himself that this was the right thing to do, that he would simply check she was content and leave.

Inside, Christine was just on the fringes of sleep when she suddenly shot bolt upright, the memories of her Angel and his horrified face from yesterday flooding back at such speed she felt terribly sick. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself down, colour high on her cheeks.

The Opera Ghost, her Angel of music...so, he lived. She could not quite decipher why this was bothering her so much, and at this hour of the night. His reaction to seeing her had not made her feel terribly happy, but then again her own stupid act of fainting had probably not helped matters.

She was glad he was alive, of course, as she could finally stop stressing over the fact that her actions might have been the final blow in killing him, but still his presence had set off a chain reaction of emotional breakdowns. She was scared that she might see him again unprepared, and was also strangely curious to meet him and talk to him.

Furious with herself for being so stupid, Christine flung herself back against the pillow with an irritated sigh. She stared at the shabby ceiling, looking at each flake of plaster and following each crack as if it were a map, until sleep began to drag down her heavy lids. She drifted off into the sweetness of feeling nothing, with images of masks, roses and operas whirling around in her brain as she slipped into sleep.

Erik decided it was time to get it over with. The sooner he arrived back home, the sooner he would stop feeling guilty about doing such things behind Nadir's back. He hadn't told the Persian about this, of course, as he wasn't proud of the fact he was so needy and desperate he would stoop to spying on people as they slept. But Erik knew that he would go mad if he didn't.

He climbed the wall steadily and easily, using the uneven brickwork as leverage, as agile as a cat. He had climbed far more perilous buildings in his time, and here the only thing fazing him was whatever lay in the room he sought. In his head he was begging like a child, begging all human decency that when he did steal a glance in at her she would look content and at peace. He hadn't decided what he would do if she wasn't; he couldn't imagine how he could react to such a thing and actually make anyone feel any better.

With the decision that this was his own point of no return, Erik told himself to get over it, and hoisted himself onto the small ledge outside the bedroom window. He muttered words of comfort to himself, feeling terribly ill all of a sudden. But he was up here now, and he had no choice but to just face the fears and look inside. With a deep breath, he peered inside.

Hungrily, his eyes swept the darkened room, having no trouble in seeing in the light from the silvery moon behind him somewhere. He searched desperately, quickly finding the bed and her sleeping figure under the blankets, squeezing his fists so tightly his nails cut into his own hand and drew blood with a painful sting. There was her unspeakably lovely dark hair contrasting against the white of the pillow, and that was her slim figure, visibly elegant even lying down and concealed by worn down blankets. Erik felt a whole new bubble of optimism inside him. She didn't look so different from three years ago so far, he knew he had made up the gaunt, lifeless look of her face...

With this optimism now inside him, he searched and found her face.

He almost gagged, bile choking up in the back of his throat, bitter as poison. He tensed up as the optimism was rapidly replaced by sheer horror as his stricken eyes took in her poor, poor face. There were purple bags under her beautiful eyes, her perfect face now far too pale and fatigued and- oh no. Oh God no, that couldn't be-

Erik couldn't stop the enraged yell of pain that erupted from his mouth as tears of anger spurted from his eyes. He nearly fell backwards in horror, turning away instantly and wishing he had never looked at her, for that image of her face would now never leave his mind.

That was a bruise, a great big ugly bruise on her moonbeam white cheek. And a graze, red and angry, tainting the flawless perfection of her glorious face. That boy- that stupid, insolent, _vile_ fop had harmed her! He, worthless and pitiful as he was, had dared to hit Christine! Erik felt- he could not put words to the anger, the hate that was in his heart right then. His Christine, struck by her own husband! Why had he let her go? Why had he let that evil boy take the woman he loved, the only woman he loved? He had let the Vicompte hit Christine by letting her go.

He recoiled from the glass as if it were fire, writhing and trembling with the urge to hunt down that worthless piece of filth and rip his throat up and out of his own coarse mouth! He closed his eyes, refusing to open them, willing the sadistic urges and the pleasing images of how Raoul would look beaten and dead to go away before he acted upon them...and then a miracle.

"A-angel?"

A soft voice, sweet to his ears and so innocent compared to all the evil images flashing up in his mind now. He opened his eyes in wonder, driven by a force so powerful and yet unbeknown to himself, and he looked straight at her.

Her deep brown eyes were pools of emotion. They were caring, kind, scared and crying for attention; begging for kindness and compassion. Her face was bone white and rigid with fear and yet when he nearly toppled backwards she reached out and gripped his shoulders, pulling him back up and saving him from what would probably have been his death. There was no anger in her eyes, only the curiosity as to why he was there, and the fear that he would harm her.

"I promise I mean no-no harm or disruption." He choked out, desperate to make her see he would not hurt her like her filthy husband so obviously would. "I only came to- to...I was passing, and I..."

His words brought out a small tentative smile onto her rose petal lips, making her face look so much more like the Christine he knew and adored rather than this abused young woman who stood before him now, scared and alone. She looked a little enthralled by his presence, which reminded him of that night when he had led her down to the catacombs, hand in hand, her eyes filled with awe and recognition of everything. He had thought she understood the music of the night, his love for her, everything...perhaps that night she really had. That same look of awe was back again now, which made him feel very strange indeed.

"You sound so different." She murmured, looking at the skin coloured mask and smiling a little at it, her eyes sparkling. "I must apologise to you for my stupidity yesterday; it was out of shock and nothing more. It's just I- I never thought you would be alive."**  
**

Erik looked at her dazed face, seeing the moonlight dance in her eyes and he had to look away as the intensity of the gaze grew uncomfortable. He hadn't been this close to her since that night- oh that hideous night of such regret!

"No. Neither did I." He murmured, the words slipping out with just a touch of ice before he could catch them. She flinched a little at the obvious reference to his own suffering, and she instantly tore her hand away from his shoulder, which she had still been desperately gripping like a lifeline. He was convinced that she would be able to hear the erratic pound of his heart; it felt like it might burst out of his chest.

The silence between them was agonising. It felt as if there was an invisible wall, holding them apart and completely choking up all the words each of them wanted so desperately to unleash. Erik had never in all his life felt so far away from someone who was so close. So close he could see the different shades the milky moonlight brought out in those divine curls, so close he could smell the rose water on her creamy skin, so close that he felt each ragged breath kiss his cheek. His eyes surveyed the bruise, his fists clenching involuntarily. The de Chagny fop would be paying for that, and he would relish in demanding that payment.

"Are you happy?" he suddenly blurted, taking Christine by obvious surprise as her eyes widened and her mouth gaped a little. "I mean to say...are you...is... is everything as you wish? I only want to...never mind my intentions-"

Christine cut him off with a small nod that made his blood boil. Why was she lying to him? Did she think he was blind, oblivious to that mark of abuse on her poor face?! He wanted her to tell him the truth; he wanted her to spill out all of her pain and secrets and desperation to him as she had done as a child, so that he might try to help her. But Erik reminded himself harshly that he was no longer the Angel of Music who cared for dear little Christine; he was a crazed madman who had scared her to the point of death and abducted her. Of course she wouldn't tell him her problems; he _was_ the problem.

"My life is...I am lucky to be in the position I am now. After all, should I not still be a forgotten chorus girl, dancing amongst a multitude of equals? Raoul has given me more than I ever deserved." She said this firmly, avoiding his intense gaze, but her hand involuntarily crept up to touch the bruise that had bloomed on her pale cheek. Erik wanted to shake her, to somehow get it into her head that she deserved more than any man could ever give; that she did not have to suffer because she was not necessarily noble blooded. He knew, that if Christine were his wife, he would never stop trying to be worthy of her, always trying to give her the devotion she so deserved. Could she not see this now, burning in his eyes? Could she not see her own perfection? He despised that fop for making Christine into this submissive servant; that was something she had never been.

"And your life?" she asked hesitantly, her desire to be polite fighting desperately with her loathe to ask such a question, as if she knew the answer already.

Erik laughed softly, the gentle night breeze carrying the sound up to the moon, which was bright against the velvet black of the sky itself.

"Oh, yes, I am living the dream." He said quietly, voice dripping with a little too much dark sarcasm, but he could not help it. Her inability to retain at least some self respect had angered him. "I have never, in fact, felt better in all my life."

Christine gasped at his dark words, ducking her head as tears of shame filled those perfect eyes. She was clearly embarrassed to be seen crying, but Erik did not even blink. He was still too affected by the fact she saw herself as so inferior she could possibly deserve to be beaten!

"My Angel, I can never ever forget how I left you that night and I will forever be tormented by the consequences of my choice." She wept pitifully. Erik thought darkly to himself that she couldn't have been that distraught, else she would have returned. "And you come to me now, to chide me and it makes it all so much worse-!"

Erik looked up in a flash, anger gone in a split second.

"It's funny, horribly and painfully funny, that now I should need an Angel when once I despised one." She seemed to have started to rant, hysteria clutching at the words and making them choke out rather than flow normally. "I am alone, for the first time in my life, and I hate it! No-one cares, they simply pass me by as if I am nothing! I hated you, loathed you, convinced that my life was painful because of you and your evil acts, but when you were gone it was worse! I thought you were dead, i was glad of it for I could finally leave my past behind...and yet I feel relief, pathetic relief that you stand here alive! Oh God-!"

"Christine-" he whispered, the words more a plea than anything.

"No- just go! Go away right now and never come back!" she sobbed, reached the peak of her hysteria with frightening emotion. "I don't want yet more reminders of how I have hurt so many- _I don't want to be told how hideous I am! Don't you think it tortures me?! _If you had any shred of compassion left in you, you would leave now and honour my request."

Erik didn't know what to do or say. He struggled for words, wanting only to stop her tears once and for all. He wouldn't promise to leave her alone; how could he now that she had admitted this painful sadness?

"Christine, I don't deserve to ask you to appreciate my feelings." He said in a whisper as she glared at him with tear filled eyes. "But I cannot leave you when you are so upset. Let me be a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen and- and even a friend, to console you, just for tonight. I cannot bear to see you so alone; I was after all your Angel. You can- you can tell me anything, Christine; _just do not make me leave you like this."_

"Oh curse you and your concerns!" she growled, almost comically, wiping her eyes and looking at him with a stern face. "I don't even understand why you are here tonight. But that offer you made me, to listen and console me...it is the kindest thing anyone has done for me in quite some time, aside from the Giry's and their support. It's selfish of me, but I cannot resist."

"That is not being selfish; I want to help you." he murmured, his heart close to exploding as her face softened. In a strange way he was glad she had been angry with him. It meant that she was being honest, and to Erik's mind that was one step closer to redemption.

"I...thank you. You had better come inside." She mumbled, well and truly embarrassed now by her hysteria and melodramatics. Erik hid a smile as he ducked inside through the open window, liking this new side he had discovered to Christine. Even if she was submissive in all other instances- Erik gnashed his teeth- he like the strength she had developed through her hardships.

But the smile slowly faded as there was a wrenching feeling in his chest. He knew, with certainty that hurt, that he should slip away now whilst he still could. He had seen her face and come to terms with the fact he now wanted to kill Raoul de Chagny, even though he hoped to resist, and he had even been blessed enough to hear her soft voice again. She was in pain and was alone; he knew that now, and she needed him.

She needed sympathy, assurance, and he could give these things in his doting care for her. He didn't doubt that. But now he knew he could give some comfort, it would torture him if he stopped coming to see her. In a crazed mission to see her face again he had managed to start a vicious circle; again.

His eyes adjusted instantly in the shadowy gloom of the room, one of few benefits of living an eternity of night, and he quickly and efficiently surveyed its contents. A shabby bed with worn blankets, and old cane chair, a washstand, a mirror, a wardrobe that had seen better days and a small, dilapidated chest of drawers. He winced a little as he saw her bare feet on the, no doubt rough, wooden flooring but noted that the room was fairly warm, apart from the chill from the open window, which he quickly and silently shut.

He felt a swell of gratitude towards Antoinette and Meg, who had assured Christine's well-being even with their lack of money. At least she had more now that Erik had Nadir had given her-

He stopped, cursing himself for once again over thinking it. This bliss, this once in a lifetime joy, was not going to last. He needed to savour every second if he had any hope in surviving the cruelty and loneliness that would take over his world once more in the aftermath of tonight. He told his mind to stop thinking, and instead lived in each gorgeous moment.

Christine was shivering as she sat on the end of her bed, pale faced, thin and fatigued. She looked so tired and run-down whilst remaining that steadfast vision of perfection that Erik was so enraptured by. He had never been able to find fault in that flawless face, those deep eyes, her heavenly voice...

To this day, he was still unsure if he loved her because she was perfect, or if she seemed perfect because he loved her. Either reason still caused his heart to throb, heightening the misery of the situation. To be in love was problematic enough, let alone to love in vain. Erik could only hope that tonight would calm his desperation to a tolerable level, even though his heart was screaming that nothing could ever be enough aside from her love in return.

"Would you mind if I got into bed?" Christine asked softly, her voice hesitant and weak again. "I'm rather cold."

Erik gestured with one swift move of his hand for her to go ahead, as he gracefully sat down on the cane chair that sat next to the bed. He watched her crawl under like a child, pulling the blankets around her and propping herself up on the pillows, her eyes drooping with exhaustion and yet bright with what seemed to be happiness.

The silence that followed was tense. Erik was fighting with the urge to talk and the fact that she was obviously tired and needed sleep. He wanted to prompt the conversation, eager to relieve some of her stress, but how could he invite such a release of her problems onto him when he was probably the cause of most of them? In was infuriating, and he glanced nervously around the room trying to ignore how his face was heating up.

"Have you ever been to the south of France, Angel?"

What? Erik turned to look at her, wondering why her voice was so dreamlike, and he saw the fight to stay awake being slowly lost as she struggled to keep her eyes open. He nearly smiled as she looked at him with a blissful sigh. She was even still calling him Angel, reverting back to the old Angel of Music days. For some reason, it was this small detail that caused the smile to break out onto his face.

"No, I don't believe I ever have."

"Oh, you should, it's lovely; so sunny and pretty." She yawned, stretching delicately. "Oh please excuse me- where was I? Ah, yes, the glorious south of France...I never tired of gazing out of my window onto the vineyards and sun kissed fields. After so many years of the cold, in Sweden and so often Paris, it was so calm and soothing..."

She lay back against the pillows with a euphoric yet lazy giggle, closing her eyes. She instantly looked much younger; so vulnerable that Erik felt a lump catch in his throat.

"It sounds lovely." He whispered, soothing.

"Mmm." She mumbled drowsily, her words slipping a little until she sounded incoherent. "Lovely...that's the word. I did so want to live there, with Raoul and little Gustave or Marie or...safe and happy in the sunshine. Safe..."

She never did finish her rambling, as then the exhaustion finally won and took her into sleep. Erik winced and writhed a little in pain as he replayed the words over and over in his tormented brain. How she talked and referred to that fop still, after all he had so obviously done...she still adored him. He watched over her like a guardian angel, shaking his head in silent disbelief. Foolish girl, he thought sadly, you don't understand at all.

At least that seemingly meaningless conversation had soothed her. It made his blood boil that simply having someone to care enough to talk to her had been like the ultimate kindness. Even as she slept, her mouth was still smiling and she looked far more peaceful than before. How could she not appreciate how much she was worth?!

He rose swiftly from the hard cane chair, stopping to reach out to her with one trembling hand. He touched her soft cheek for a second, feeling its silky texture underneath his calloused fingertips, before wrenching his hand away as if he had just plunged it into open flames. She was still so far away, so out of reach, even though he could touch her-

As he forced himself to walk away from her sleeping form, the words from his mournful aria fell from his lips as a barely audible whisper.

"_And as much as I want to, I can never hold you,  
The struggle to resist fights the need for your kiss.  
And as much as I need to, you'll never let me love you,  
To take would not be right so I remain, lost in the night.  
Alone, forever alone, without you.'_

Erik choked on the words, tasting them as bitter and cold as tears of despair spurted from his eyes. He gripped the window sill in an attempt at the self control he knew he couldn't break. He mustn't, he _knew_ he mustn't- so why did the allure remain so strongly? Could he never lose the pain, the horror, and reach the stability to leave her at peace?

God, he knew it then more than ever that he was insane. Fixated on her, captivated by her, enthralled by only her... no-one else would ever be-

This was _more _than music and _more_ than the need for a voice and muse. This was pure, uncontrollable love coursing through his veins as he silently cried over her smiling, peaceful face. It hurt so much- why did love have to hurt so much?! Love was meant to be good and pure and bliss, pure heavenly bliss, so why was he hurting this way?

Erik knew that he could run to the furthest corner of the globe and never be free of this maddening feeling. This love- this obsession with her- it was etched into his heart so that each staggering beat sent more adoration for her through his body and brain. The power of the love he felt was scaring him, as was the horrifying reality that she could never love him in return. She had said so herself; she had loathed him.

Erik jumped silently to the darkened streets and tried to forget the events of this tormenting night. He couldn't tell Nadir, he couldn't admit his weakness to the man who had made him strong again. He hurried along to Nadir's home, feeling the blast of the cold night air clear his head a little, but nowhere near enough.

He wished he had never given in to look in on her. It was starting, that cycle of insanity; he could feel it starting to overcome his entire being. And he wouldn't let himself become that monster again; he would rather die.

The moon watched silently as Erik fled down the streets back to the sanctity of Nadir's home. Something had changed in the darkness of this night. A change that could never be reversed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** **I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi again! So I finally have some time to upload this chapter, sorry if it has been a while... I know a lot of you want to see Raoul pulverised (as the fop really deserves it!) so perhaps this chapter will satisfy some of those wishes...? **

**As ever, thank you to the lovely people who read/fave/follow/review this story, especially; Hugabouv, TMara, icanhearthedrums, Dkk5 and Moongrl088. Reviews are always appreciated, and I'm glad that you like this story! Now I pass you over to the wonderful characters of POTO...**

**Seven- Try To Forgive, Teach Me To Live, Give Me The Strength To Try  
(The Giry Residence)**

After running, and tripping, down the stairs decked out in full costume, Meg finally reached the front door of her and her Mother's house, nearly falling over Pandora who lay sleeping in the middle of the floor. She mewled and leapt up, dashing up the stairs like lightening, whilst Meg took one moment to calm her ragged breathing. The door rattled ominously, being pounded upon by a relentless fist and Meg briefly wondered who might have the audacity to do such a thing so early in the morning.

A little irritated, she yanked the door open and at once realised just who would be so shockingly rude. With a small gasp she took in Raoul de Chagny, standing on her doorstep as his chest heaved with the effort of such violence on the door. His face was tight with fury, his eyes dancing with glittering malice, and his agitated manner clearly spelt out that he was not happy.

"Monsieur de Chagny!" Meg trilled, forcing a huge smile onto her pale face to hide the panic that had begun to bubble beneath the surface of her skin. "What a surprise! What brings you-"

"Is she here?" his cold voice cut her off without a care, his hot and stale breath hitting her face so that her nose wrinkled in disgust. The stench of alcohol was radiating from his persona, and it was all Meg could do to stop herself from taking a revolted step back. Her mind was reeling in the desperation to get rid of this cruel drunkard, to keep him away from Christine as long as she possibly could...

It wasn't as if she could actually have a coherent conversation with him anyway, being so rude and intoxicated with the demon drink. Meg folded her arms curtly, hardening her gaze in an attempt to show Raoul de Chagny that she was not to be messed around.

"I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about, Monsieur." She replied firmly, her voice still fairly pleasant and friendly, but now with a distinct cold edge that made Raoul shift his stance a little. "And whilst I would be happy to assist you, in normal circumstances, I am in dire need to hurry off to my rehearsal, so if you wouldn't mind..."

She expected, having been brought up to always be polite and respectful, him to nod and bid her goodbye. Instead, he shoved her aside and barged right into the house without a word of explanation.

"Don't lie, Mademoiselle, it doesn't suit your kind." He snarled as Meg screeched in indignation as she fought to get around him and confront him with her blazing eyes. How dare he enter her home without invitation? What a sorry excuse for a supposedly genteel member of the aristocracy! As Raoul looked around, surveying his surroundings how a lion might before pouncing on its helpless prey, Meg took advantage of his distraction to lunge forward and block the hallway. She accidentally, but with complete satisfaction, pushed him into the wall as she did so and caused him to swear loudly.

"Excuse me, Monsieur!" she gasped, outraged by his complete dismissal of common courtesy. "Kindly stop cursing like any common lout and _get out of my home!"_

Meg saw the fury bloom on the Vicomtes face and as he made for her she wondered if there had ever lived a more uncouth 'gentleman'. She braced herself for the impact of his hard fist or shoulder, holding firm on the first step of the stairs so that should he try to go up, he would fail miserably. She dug her nails tightly into the banister and faced him head on, no fear on her face; only determination.

"Tell me, Meg, IS CHRISTINE HERE?!" he yelled as he charged right up to her, his face only inches away from her own, so she was once again hit with the odious stench of his breath and the spittle that came flying out of his mouth alongside the torrent of words. "And don't you dare lie to me! Don't think that I am oblivious to what you are; a poor, common little dancer with no traits of any value WHATSOEVER!"

Meg wished right then that Erik was here. She faced the seething mess that was Raoul de Chagny, and wished with all her being that she could somehow summon Erik here right now. And it wasn't because she was scared or needed help, oh no. Meg felt colour rise up on her cheeks as she imagined Erik being here and smashing the pompous Vicomte against the cobbles of the street outside. What sweet victory it would be to see this unfeeling monster pounded like a lifeless hunk of meat.

Then, as she stood firm watching the Vicomte shake with anger, Meg felt overcome with childish urge and she stuck her pink, pointed tongue out at him. It felt truly glorious, especially as she watched the rage build up in him and expel in the form of a bellow.

He snarled and lunged for her but Meg responded like lightening; kicking him with a delicate dancers foot straight in the shin. Ha, she thought as he toppled over, so my dancing is still of no value? Raoul fell onto the small wooden table in the hallway, sending it and all on top of it flying. A vase, some flowers and a wooden letter rack lay beside him on the floor, broken. As he reached out and tried to pull her down too, she deftly yanked off her shoe and smacked him about the head with it. He cursed her with obscene words, infuriating her so that she was suddenly filled the nerve to raise her fist, set to punch him straight in his ugly jaw-

"Vicomte, would you care to explain what you are doing?"

The icy, superior tone of her Mother cut through the heated violence like the sharpest sword, and Meg nearly burst out laughing on hearing her Mother's appalled voice from behind her on the stairs. She turned around and quickly mouthed;

_He's looking for Christine._

But Antoinette did not look distressed by this fact, merely nodding sedately and turning her icy glare straight onto the squirming Vicomte.

"Well?" she demanded, in that tone that had made her pupils obey every command without question. She swiftly stepped down and past Meg, helping Raoul up from the floor with a look of distaste. "You may be the Vicomte de Chagny, but this is my home and you have no place in it. I do believe my daughter told you that we cannot entertain guests at this moment in time. Are you really that desperate for our company?"

Raoul flushed a painful red and Meg smothered a giggle. She was filled with the desperate urge to laugh in his face now that her panic had melted away into anger and then joy at seeing him so uncomfortable. He shifted awkwardly under Antoinette's unshakeable glare.

"I am- terribly sorry Madame, I cannot explain what came over me..." he mumbled, a little confusedly as he suddenly found his feet very interesting, staring resolutely at them. "I am looking for my wife-"

"Well I suggest that you go home and rest before you embark on another, clearly emotionally stressful, search." Antoinette commented drily, the sarcasm only just audible in her scathing tone. "And if you are struggling with the search for your wife, perhaps you will find her lost in that monstrously large house of yours? You should try your home first, and if that search proves less than fruitful, perhaps you should advertise your..._misfortune_ in the Paris Gazette?"

Meg couldn't help it; with a snort she burst out laughing. Her mother shushed her with mock severity, smiling wryly, and Raoul shot her a venomous glare before bowing his head sheepishly under the icy watch of her mother. He fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable, and made several incomprehensible noises before he managed to put a sentence together.

"Good day, Madame." He struggled out in a strangled voice, turning on his heel and storming out, slamming the peeling door. Meg stifled another giggle as she remembered the similar event from three years ago, when La Carlotta had flounced out of the Opera Populaire. All Raoul needed was a gaudy dress and powdered wig, preferably adorned with ostentatious decorations and clashing colours. Meg let out another peal of laughter and then a dramatised sigh of relief as she flopped down onto the first step of the worn out stairs.

"Is she still asleep?" Meg asked once she had calmed the uncontrollable fit of laughter, her eyes drifting upwards to the ceiling that would be Christine's bedroom floor.

"Yes, thank goodness." Antoinette sighed a little in defeat, dabbing at her brow with a lace handkerchief. "Raoul will be back, you know, only sober and far more vindictive. We can't keep him at bay forever, Meg; Christine _is _married to him."

"But we must! He beat her!" Meg gasped out, eyes wide with true fear as to what would happen to her friend if her manic husband found her now. But she knew, deep down, that her Mother spoke only sense. Sooner or later the law would become involved and it wouldn't do either of them any good, especially with Erik around.

"I just...I just feel so awful for her." Meg whispered as she closed her eyes to see the bruise on Christine's face and her friend's shame that it was there. "Why does Raoul treat her like that; they were in love!"

"Who knows the strange goings on in the minds of lovers, my dear?" Antoinette sighed heavily. "His family won't be helping matters. I think that their social standing and way of life would put strain on the most affectionate of lovers."

But that was just it. Meg remembered with perfect clarity how Raoul and Christine had looked at one another with true love in their shy eyes, how they had sought each other out amongst the crowd of a room, how each embrace, kiss or even touch had glowed with affection and adoration. They had been the most affectionate of couples and Meg was sure that the fault did not lie in stress; it was the fault of a particularly repulsive rat called Raoul de Chagny!

But what could Christine do? She was trapped in that abusive marriage with no escape aside an annulment or the death of Raoul, both of which Meg knew were near impossible. The only way to help her desperate friend would be to annul the marriage or to kill the Vicomte; Erik would no doubt prefer the latter.

"Erik would have been better for her." Meg pouted, getting up and heading off to make some tea, already aware that her preparations for the rehearsal that afternoon would have to wait. "He adores her, Mother, so much so that he refuses to give into his heart and meet her again! I can't understand how she could have hated such a...such a kind and passionate man!"

"Remember that he kidnapped her; he was rather insane, Meg." Antoinette reminded her. "And whilst we may appreciate that he was driven to this breaking point Christine would have simply seen a crazed obsessive, intent on harming her."

"Driven mad with love!" Meg declared passionately, throwing her arms out and whirling round and round the kitchen in a dreamlike trance. Antoinette smiled fondly at her dramatic and passionate daughter, whom she knew despite her exaggerations, was a logical, kind and honestly good young woman. Meg had flourished in life, always smiling and grinning and laughing. She was a friend and daughter like no other, lighting up dark days with her optimistic shine, and Antoinette's love of her daughter's happiness had only been heightened by the comparison with the melancholy Christine.

Antoinette remembered those days at the Opera as if they were only yesterday. She could see the images of little Meg and little Christine dancing shaky steps and playing loudly in the dusty, dark and daunting setting of backstage. It had been one giant adventure for the two of them at that glorious age, playing with all the other ballerinas and being doted upon by every other performer. In the shows, her smiling daughter and reserved Christine had danced side by side in perfect balance, best friends and loving life together.

Whilst Meg had always had a huge smile plastered on her face, Christine had always had something dark about her. She had been a quiet child, not one for throwing herself into the limelight. No one had ever paid her a second glance.

Antoinette felt a deathly shiver creep down her spine at the memory of when she had first heard little Christine singing in the chapel, in duet with the luxurious tones of Erik. Even then, at the young age of seven years old, she had been ridiculously good at singing, especially with such a genius as her tutor. There had been something about the haunting clarity of her voice, the way it was powerful in an innocent and sweet way as opposed to the near roaring of the other singers that had struck a chord within Antoinette's heart.

She remembered those conversations with Erik when he first met Christine, seeing the light of life sparkling in those eternally sad eyes at the joy of having a purpose again. He had adored little Christine, calling her his little companion and bragging about her to Antoinette like a doting Father or brother. Of course, there was also the joy that he had never voiced but that Antoinette herself had sensed; he had loved being idolised and appreciated, even if only through a wall. Christine had loved her Angel, and he had loved her back.

Of course this love had not been romantic love, God no! It was only when Christine Daae ceased to be a scared little girl and was instead a beautiful young woman that Erik had well and truly fallen for his pupil, and Antoinette remembered those confusing days vividly. Erik had loved Christine in every sense of the word, and Antoinette knew with the faint tug of sadness on her heart that if Christine had been with him these last three years, she would not be the wreck she was today.

Later that morning, when the sun was blazing through the windows and the rush of another busy day in Paris had truly begun on the crowded streets, Christine breezed downstairs flushed pink with happiness and actually smiling. Her brown eyes were warm and sparkling with life and she felt amazing. The meeting with her Angel after all the worries of him being dead and the small prospect of even meeting him again made her broken heart dance. It felt very strange to feel the ecstatic rush in her veins. Her Angel had made her feel like a human being again.

"Good morning Madame, Meg!" she dang, her voice soaring as she skipped into the kitchen like a little girl again. Antoinette, who had just been out to collect the mornings post, managed a smile for her and Meg gaped in shock as Christine laughed. "It's so sunny and warm today; the sun has at last come to Paris!"

Meg smiled, leaving her shock behind, and she leapt up to hug her friend as if they were sisters.

"So it is!" she giggled, grasping her friend's hands and bringing her to sit down. "You're happy today Christine!"

"Yes!" she laughed her reply, and the sound was like the peal of a heavenly bell. She sung her reply with such joy that the words soared up towards the sky with the power of an Italian Opera. _"I feel alive!"_

Meg was so overjoyed by the apparent happiness of her friend, especially after the worrisome events of the morning that she could not help but leap up and pull Christine along with her, dancing around the kitchen as they giggled and stumbled and swung their arms about in a maddened fashion. It was as if they were back at the Opera, celebrating the success of another show with faultless dancing.

Antoinette clutched the sinister little envelope in her grasp and watched the two girls with sad eyes. It was further insult to injury that this should have to happen now, with Christine so happy- Antoinette took a step into the kitchen, the letter still in her grasp, and her dull face was enough to halt the uproarious singing and laughing. Christine turned in the direction of Meg's worried frown and hurried over to her carer from seven years old.

"Madame?" she asked softly, eyes instantly pulled to the small envelope in Antoinette's grip. Just the sight of it made her very ill all of a sudden, and a lump caught in her dry throat as she tried to swallow her fear. "Whatever is the matter?"

Meg too hurried over with huge worried eyes, imploring an explanation from the clearly distressed woman. But with a small, sad smile Antoinette simply slipped the letter into Christine's cold hands, seeing the girls colour drain at frightening velocity.

"You will probably want to read this alone, my dear." Antoinette murmured softly so that Meg did not hear the words, or the ominous message they brought crashing down onto this sudden uplifting optimism. "But if you should need me, I will be upstairs."

She took Megs hand and led her out of the room, ignoring her daughter's yelps of protest and complaints consisting of the usual "it's not fair" accusations that made Christine want to smile as she watched them leave. But the envelope she clutched made her heart thud unevenly, and she felt a numb sensation creep into her tongue.

She made herself look at the seemingly inoffensive letter, even though it made her want to vomit. She knew that writing, that elegant and perfected script, anywhere. She had to stop for a few minutes just to get enough control of her hands to even open the letter, she was shaking so violently.

She ripped the thin paper open and let her scared eyes scan the page.

'_Christine,_

_I called on the Giry's this morning. Despite their unswerving assurances that you were not there, I knew otherwise; I presume you are there still. Perhaps it is that at this time that seems so hard on you that you need other women beside you. Perhaps you are simply seeing old friends? Whatever your reasons, I cannot be a judge. However, the fact remains that your miscarriage does not detract from your duty as my wife and the Vicomtess. You are first and foremost a de Chagny and you should remember this before you decide to leave us all with no warning again._

_We, that is the de Chagny family, are hosting a dance tomorrow night, a masquerade ball to be exact, and I expect you to be home and ready for this event. I will take legal action against whoever is holding you back, and I have sent a letter of similar explanation to the Giry's._

_Do not take the false understanding that this threat is empty, my dear; I mean every word._

_I shall see you tomorrow, or perhaps today then?_

_Vicomte de Chagny.'_

Christine let out a cry of pure horror, crumpling the foul little scrap in her fist and throwing it to the floor with as much anger as she could muster. He had the nerve to write all that to her, to sign it 'Vicomte' instead of his own name and yet expect her to abide?! She loathed him; every single foul part of him!

She felt a pang for the poor Giry's amongst her anger; they had been so kind and supportive of her pathetic ways and even though they owed her nothing, she had still relied upon their kindness and brought all this mess down upon their innocent shoulders. The thoughts of her and Meg dancing round the kitchen as if they were possessed not ten minutes ago brought tears to her tired eyes at the pure in justice of it all.

Was a little happiness too much to ask?!

The small voice in the back of her head grew louder and louder as her sadness and rage deepened, crying out that if she left this haven of peace and happiness that she would be leaving her Angel again. He would not know to find her at the townhouse, and nor could he even if he knew; it was heavily fortified against thieves and thus anyone else who might sneak in.

Christine fell into a chair, placing her throbbing head into her hands. She was so confused about all the emotions stirring round and round in her brain; craving his company and doting care, desperate for his companionship, guilty to even think about him in such a positive light and then the horror at even deliberating his evil. He had been a complete madman, he had killed several people and he had frightened her half to death-!

And yet who else had managed to stop the tears and the aching pain of losing her sweet Papa? Who else had given her music? Who else had watched over her with the diligence of the perfect parent in her childhood, aiding her and guiding her? No-one but him; her Angel.

He was, in many strange ways that seemed wrong, her guardian angel; Christine smiled despite the sadness at the thought alone. The accolade suited him without flaw.

The site of the crumpled, ripped and torn note brought the horror of reality tumbling back into sharp focus, and Christine sighed as she started to walk in search of poor Madame Giry and Meg. She didn't want to leave their warm home and their welcoming smiles, but she had to as soon as she possibly could, to minimise the risk of their suffering in consequence to her little disappearance. She loathed the idea of walking back into the cruel household like a beaten animal, but she would hold her head high and fight to retain every last of inch of dignity she still possessed. She only wished, with a little wistful thought, that she could somehow leave a note for her Angel, but it would not be sensible to do such a thing.

It wasn't as if she could pen the feelings in her tormented heart anyway.

Christine knew that if she had any hope in surviving this shock back into harsh reality she would have to learn to be strong without a guardian angel to fall back on. She had to learn to fight for her dignity, to be respected and to live. She felt a little invigorated by the prospect as she strode down the hallway, head held high and proud.

It was time to grow up and live at last.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello again, another update, another chapter...sometimes it's so infuriating that these updates take so long as this story is all pre-written and I know what's going to happen! *sighs dramatically* Anyways, Erik is back again this chapter and Christine is starting to try to be a little more assertive. **

**Thank you readers and reviewers alike, your support is appreciated immensely! Thank you icanhearthedrums for your review! **** With no further delay, I present to you...chapter eight!**

**Eight- Angel Of Music, Guide And Guardian  
(Nadir's Home)**

"She WHAT?!"

An ear-splitting yell shattered the relative calm of another bright Paris morning, rattling the window panes and causing passers-by of the seemingly normal house look up in surprised alarm at the sudden horrified outburst.

The yell of disbelief and annoyance had come from Erik, who had leapt up from the chair he had previously been perched on in order to convey his anger fully. He felt completely ridiculous after he bellowed the words at Nadir, who was now cautiously glancing at him as if he were insane, but what else was he supposed to do? Last night he had tormented himself into a complete frenzy before deciding to once again go to Christine via her window. And what had awaited him after the hours of painful deliberation? Nothing; she hadn't even been there.

In desperation, this morning he had sent Nadir to the Giry household as soon as he could, begging that he enquire as to whether Christine was still there. Nadir had given him a quizzical look, causing Erik to bark out that he only wanted to see whether it was safe to visit Antoinette or not. But now Nadir had returned and dumped this pathetic news upon him, and though he knew he ought to act glad, he could not bring himself to stop this outburst of rage. Just when he had managed to see her again-!

"Yes, Erik, she left yesterday afternoon and is now at home with the de Chagnys." Nadir said with a worn out roll of his eyes, exasperated with his friends erratic mood swings that seemed to have no justification. "Antoinette mentioned that the de Chagnys are in fact throwing a masquerade ball tonight, so I suppose she is needed for that? I don't understand why you are so irritated, you oaf; you can visit Antoinette all you like now."

Erik gritted his teeth and bit back the reply he ached to hurl at Nadir. Why in this apparently crazed world would such a clearly tormented woman return to the very man who had caused her suffering? He began to pace back and forth before the fireplace, refusing to calm down as knew Nadir was hoping. He did resist the urge to yell an obscenity at the ceiling; such a foul word would probably cause Nadir offense, being the prig he was.

Erik was feeling extremely bothered by his paranoia. He felt as if something was not right, but he could not quite determine what exactly...perhaps the fear of Christine suffering? Or the possible consequences of his actions?

He brushed the racing thoughts away to prevent an explosion of anger, which would no doubt result in at least one item of broken furniture.

Meanwhile, Meg Giry was out and about on the slowly filling streets of the city, a skip in her delicate step as she hummed a little tune under her breath. She was happily on her way to call in on Nadir and Erik, since being given their address, and she only wished that she could tell Erik the story of Raoul bursting in on them. Meg had been convinced that the story of her hitting him with a shoe and her Mother's sarcasm towards such a rich man would have been hilarious for Erik, but Antoinette had been horrified and told Meg that such a narration would not end well.

"But why not?" Meg had demanded a little childish pout on her pretty face. "It's not as if anyone was hurt!"

"Raouls behaviour was bullying and aggressive towards you, me and Christine. Erik would not react well to that." Had been her mother's firm reply, and Meg had to admit that she had now realised how ignorant she had been.

Erik was like gunpowder. They all had to be so careful as to how they handled him, so wary of the little spark that might trigger the explosion-

Meg was pulled out of her musings as someone harshly yanked her elbow and tugged her into an alleyway, obscured from the view of the other pedestrians. The hand that tugged her was firm and no explanation was offered, so Meg tensed and pulled away with all the force she could muster, fearful that she was about to be mugged. But what thief would attack a confident young girl in the middle of a bright morning? Her doubts made her brave, and so Meg turned to glare at the stranger.

She saw a man in dull clothing, nothing out of the ordinary, though his nose was almost scarily hooked and his face was drawn and pinched. His dark hair was greying at the temples, and though he did not seem that old he had clearly been aged by working. Working as what, Meg wondered as she fought to keep the surprise of her face at his appearance. He was clearly not an attacker.

"Mademoiselle." He said in a husky voice, using normal French in a normal accent. "Might I have a word?"

"It rather depends." Meg replied briskly, eyeing his reaction carefully. He did not seem angered by her cold tone, or her defiant stance, so she folded her arms and made sure her bag was firmly in her grasp, out of sight. Just in case. "On what subject do you wish to converse?"

"Madame de Chagny, the Opera star." He replied easily, without emotion or rush. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he surveyed her face, watching for a flicker of change in her expression, but Meg fought to keep it scathing and emotionless despite the feeling of dread building up. "Have you seen her recently or perhaps know where she is?"

"No." Meg managed to reply tartly, trying to push the man into anger or annoyance so he might lose his guarded persona and accidently release some information. "As far as I am aware, Vicomtesses do not meet with dancers Monsieur. I suggest you try the de Chagny home. Good day."

Before he could hold her back with another annoyingly calm question, Meg fled from the alleyway and back into the protection of the busy streets and the golden warmth of the sun. Her heart was thumping like a bass drum and her mouth was dry, but she turned and hurried onwards to Nadir's home despite the feeling of sickness in her stomach. She was proud of having not released any information to that stranger, whoever he was. Surely it was odd to be asking people on the streets, obviously poor people, about a member of the aristocracy?

She still felt uneasy as she strode down the streets, too het up to stop and chat to all the stall owners who loved her dancing and her singing. Every couple of steps she took would be accompanied by a darting glance behind her, or to the side, to make sure that the man was not tailing her.

Should she-? Meg deliberated with the idea of telling Erik and Nadir about this odd occurrence. She liked to think that they would be able to tell her she was being silly, that it meant nothing... But why had that man asked _her_ about Christine? Did he know that they had been friends? Hardly anyone knew that she and Christine had been best friends as dancers as it was not a fact anyone cared to know. Meg did not like the swing in the pit of her stomach as she thought about what such knowledge could indicate.

Soon her intended destination came into view, and feeling pleased with herself for finding it without any problems, Mg dashed up the few little steps before the door and knocked once. Nadir let her in with a smile, taking her coat and bag as her ears were impacted by the unearthly sound of a haunting piano, playing a soulful melody so sweet and sad it made her want to cry.

"His newest aria." Nadir rolled his eyes a little, leading her through to the parlour with another rueful grin. "He has been playing it non-stop since we had a little disagreement this morning and I am starting to regret buying that wretched instrument. He should really sell his scores, anonymously of course, but he'll never agree to it. Stubborn beast."

Meg laughed at Nadir's obviously fond criticism, and he smiled back with twinkly eyes. They found Erik engaged in his melody, eyes closed to the sheer ecstasy of playing and face calm and lost to the sea of music that was surging around him in the otherwise silent room. Meg didn't even need to hear the lyrics, sung in that soft and compelling voice, to know who had inspired such a melody. But this brought back all her thoughts of Christine, and the enquiries of the stranger, so that she quite rudely interrupted his playing with a loud gasp.

"Erik!" she burst out, her voice frantic as she decided in that spilt second that it would not be sensible to keep the earlier events hidden. He looked up, startled to be pulled out of his trance so suddenly.

"Yes, Meg?" he asked, fighting to control the annoyance in his voice. He didn't appreciate being interrupted mid-tune. "What is wrong?"

He tore his eyes away from the expanse of black and white keys, easing his foot from the sustain pedal and shifting on his seat. Meg looked exceedingly bothered, perhaps on the verge of stress, and her eyes were clouded with an emotion all too familiar to Erik's eyes; fear.

"I- I wasn't sure if I should tell you or not." She stuttered a little at the sudden intensity of Erik's gaze trying to ignore how Nadir suddenly came to look directly at her also. "I don't even know if you'll care, but I assume- never mind. It was only that a man approached and stopped me on my way here, and he asked me a few questions. Questions about Christine, asking if I had recently seen her or knew where she was."

Erik felt his mouth drop open. It felt as if his stomach mimicked this, swinging and dropping in a nauseating manner as he felt the blood drain from his face. An enquiry from a stranger. Erik knew, from past experience, that such things spelt trouble.

"But surely it would be obvious that Madame de Chagny would be at home, in the de Chagny townhouse?" Nadir asked, frowning. He didn't look best pleased, if the look he shot Erik was anything to go by. Meg shifted uneasily as she wondered if Erik would be curious as to why Nadir seemed to care. "It can't have been a de Chagny checking up on her whereabouts because they knew where she was; at home. So it could have been a fan of her singing."

"No." Erik whispered softly, the agonising realisation dawning on him. "Hired to enquire, Nadir. Someone might well have paid that man to follow Christine."

Erik suddenly whirled around, forgetting that he should have been pretending to no longer care about the well-being of Christine. He grabbed Meg by the shoulders, completely manic, and gripped her tightly. Nadir yelled out words of caution as Meg squeaked in surprise, her head wobbling as Erik shook her lightly.

"What did this man look like? Did he have an accent? Tall or short? Fat, thin, a limp, facial hair, any distinguishing features at all? Did he resemble a de Chagny? Did he look poor or rich? Did he-"

Meg looked both dazed and confused as she tried to keep up with the frenzied questions bubbling up and out of his mouth. Nadir deftly stepped in and yanked Erik backwards, breaking his firing of questions and releasing Meg from his iron grip. Erik harshly shoved Nadir away from him, on the verge of yelling, fearing that Christine was now the fixation of some perverted investigation or another unsavoury quest that centred around her, somehow. She had been safe, entirely safe, with the Girys and he would have been able to keep a close guard- curses!

Meg stumbled a little, dizzy with the questions whirling in her mind, and she had to think for a moment until she could clearly put her observations into a coherent explanation. Erik waited with bated breath, hanging on every word that came out of her cautious mouth.

"He had no accent- he sounded the same as you or I. He- his nose was prominently hooked and he looked very strained. His clothes were dull, his hair was dark, he was neither tall nor short-" Meg looked up suddenly, her voice apologetic. "He was normal, Erik. As normal as normal can be. My only worry is...how did he know to ask me?"

"What do you mean?" Nadir frowned again, his face puzzled as he fought to see why this bothered her so.

"It's just that only a very few know that Christine and myself were friends. I feel as if he knew that, and that he knew I had seen her recently. So who would have told him-how does he know?!" Meg was working herself into a panic, her eyes wild. "God, who is this horrid man?! Why would he ask such questions, and to me?!"

Erik felt ill as he turned to Nadir in a flash, surprised to see similar worry for Christine in his friend's eyes. He took advantage of his obvious distress and looked directly into his old, wise eyes. Nadir could see what Erik was about to ask; he knew his friend too well to be surprised by it.

"Nadir, if you cared about my sanity you would get out on the streets and find this man. You would question him if you found him. I beg you, please do not lecture me, I can hardly-"

"Consider it done." Nadir nodded and agreed softly, taking Erik by surprise by grabbing his coat and gloves, which he began to pull on at unbelievable speeds. Erik might not have known it, but Nadir was just as concerned for the poor girl since he had seen and heard of her bruises. He also feared how Erik would react if he didn't help to soothe all their worries.

With one surprising ally on side, Erik turned to Meg and saw at once how panicked she was by the urgency between himself and Nadir. She looked ill, and she nearly fell into an armchair as her knees wobbled threateningly.

"You need to get home as soon as you can and tell your mother about this. I know you both care about her." Erik said softly yet firmly, twitching a little with the urge to start his own search. "I am going to the masquerade ball tonight; I'll not let Christine be alone again."

"But-" Meg began in frantic tones, but Nadir shook his head to shush her as Erik dashed off into another room, a bloodhound on the scent.

"We cannot do anything to change his mind now." Nadir said gravely. "Besides, it's probably good that he will be there, to make sure this new 'friend' of ours doesn't show up and cause any trouble."

"But her bruises-!" Meg began, but then stopped. There was a far more pressing issue to consider. "I always assumed he hated her now...why does he care enough to protect her at his own risk? He ran from our house at the mere sight of her, Nadir, I don't understand it."

Nadir sighed, looking behind him to ensure Erik was still out of the room. He didn't want his friend to hear this.

"Meg, there is no use in us trying to ignore this any longer." He sounded very sad, which made Megs heart squeeze in anticipation of horror. "It is plainly obvious that the stupid fool still loves her and that there is nothing in this cruel world that will ever change the fact. He is setting himself up to fall back down into incredible pain, Meg, but there is little we can do other than help him with his wishes and hope that she lets him down easily this time, rather than screaming in his face."

Meg could not help it. She squeaked in delight, a huge smile beaming out of her face as Nadir raised one perplexed eyebrow. Meg could not see how such a thing was bad; he loved Christine! Erik still loved Christine! This was...brilliant!

Whilst the whole event was still dangerous and scary for them all, most of all Christine who was completely oblivious, things were changing for the better. Now if Christine really were suffering she would have a man closer than she thought who adored her for all he was worth- Meg let out another squeal of triumph as she imagined organising that Erik should tutor Christine again. If they could meet once more without the anger or interruption from Raoul the rat, perhaps the sleeping bud of romance could burst into bloom-!

Erik burst back into the room and Meg began to laugh happily, causing both men to look at her as if she were clinically insane. She could not help it though, and their concerned expressions only added to the humour of the moment.

"Meg, I have absolutely no idea as to what you're planning, and I don't want to. I suggest that you go home, right now actually." Nadir sighed like a strict teacher, which made Meg's smile turn a little sheepish as she bid them goodbye and danced off home. Erik turned to look at Nadir as soon as she had gone.

"I suppose I had better go now." Nadir said, rushing for the door once they could no longer see Meg from the window. "Erik...please be careful."

Erik watched his friend leave in a similar manner to Meg, only less of a dancer and more a private investigator. He glanced at the huge grandfather clock with wishful eyes, both hoping for and dreading the moment when he would have to leave this house and join a party of the gentry to watch over his old pupil. He ran up the stairs three at a time, already deliberating as to what he should wear; coming to the uncomfortable conclusion that he would have to wear his Don Juan costume, mask and all. The whole act was bound to be tricky, but the artist inside Erik was raring for the challenge, well aware that he had endured far worse challenges in his eventful life. He briefly fretted over the matter of devising a name for himself, before deciding that for once 'Erik' was perfect.

_Hours later, the de Chagny Residence..._

Christine grimaced at her reflection in the huge gilt framed mirror, warily touching the skirt of her dress and tugging at it until her maid tutted, making some tart comment about how she shouldn't fuss. The maid gathered the other dresses and bustled out of the room, leaving Christine alone with her reflection.

She felt ill. The bright blues and greens of the dress, paired with the unforgiving make-up plastered all over her tired face made her look pale and sickly; just how she felt. Once she was sure that the maid was gone, she wiped off all the make-up in disgust at how much there really was on her naturally creamy complexion, immediately feeling more comfortable once the excessive rouge and lipstick were gone. She yanked off the gaudy dress, hating it and the attention seeking vibe it projected, opting instead for a plain white dress with an elegant neckline, a flattering skirt and long sleeves. It made her look graceful and elegant, rather than showy and vulgar. She pulled her brown curls out of the ridiculous hair style the maid had fashioned, liking the comfort of hair around her face, and once again looked at her reflection anxiously in the mirror. Mirrors always made her feel nervous now, and she did not enjoy the task of looking at herself.

She looked young and innocent. That was much better.

Raoul would throw a fit, especially as the other dress had been bought to compliment a gaudy emerald and sapphire encrusted mask that he had bought for her, sparing no details about how expensive it was and how grateful she ought to be. But Christine no longer cared, as she reached for a lace mask instead. Her bruise had faded to a mottled green now and had to be covered with heavy powders, which still did not completely conceal it from sight. Oh well, she decided in the end, it is not as if I beat myself. It is he that will suffer the shame.

She had adopted a new attitude towards Raoul and was fighting to maintain it; he had not had the time to shout at her yet, far too busy organising this party he was so eager about.

The maid returned and immediately let out a cry of indignation upon seeing her unexplained change of clothing, not to mention the lack of make-up on her face, gasping as Christine only stared back coolly.

"Madame, the Vicomte gave me strict instruction to dress you in the blue and green gown." She said timidly, all feisty attitudes dissolved at the mention of her often cruel Master. "I'll be punished if you wear anything else."

"No you will not." Christine said firmly, disgusted by her husband's lack of decency towards his own staff sometimes. "It was me who decided to change, and I will tell him this. You need not worry."

The maid nodded without a word and hurried off to assist someone else. Christine took one last look in the mirror and without a second thought made her way firmly down the stairs and into the thick of the party. She saw the flurry of dancers, all in bright costume and embellished with the most ridiculous looking masks that she smothered a giggle, heading for the only break in the crowd. She was striking against all the vibrant colours, only in pure white.

"Why are you not in the blue dress?"

Raouls harsh voice was suddenly loud in her ear, his hand grasping her arm, not at all lightly, so she turned to look into his eyes as she ripped her arm away from him. He looked stressed, the presence of an important new business partner here tonight making him nervous and jittery. She knew that if Raoul impressed them with his business propositions, they would be able to return to the south of France again and live away from the Comte and Comtess. She immediately felt a little guilty for being so very cold.

"I decided on this one; the other did not suit." She replied in a far softer voice, daring to touch his cheek with a tentative hand. He lifted his own and placed it on top if hers, holding it there as he closed his eyes. "But thank you for buying me the dress."

His eyes snapped open, pooled with guilt.

"What is mine is yours, Christine. You have no need to thank me ever, for anything..." he said thickly, as if fighting to hold back a gesture. "About the baby-"

Christine was filled with a swell of hope and gratitude that he cared to bring up such an important issue, and suddenly she kissed his other cheek tenderly.

"Not tonight, my love. Go and talk to your guests and we can talk later." She soothed him, gently, and he smiled at her, suddenly looking like that man she had fallen in love with three years ago. As he hurried away, Christine wondered why he could be so kind and caring now, and not always.

Hours flew by and Christine did little more than stand on the sidelines, watching the vibrant dancers whirl past her in a flurry of laughter and colour. She danced with no one, and only talked to a few women who came to offer their condolences about her miscarriage; though it was obvious they wanted to leave as soon as they could. Christine didn't blame them for their discomfort around her, as she knew what a delicate topic it was to discuss.

She felt like such an outsider at her own family's event, and this made her feel incredibly sad.

Eventually the heat got too much to bear, so she decided to head for the doors and sit outside, to let the cool kiss of the night breeze calm her. She could feel her breath starting to hitch in gasps that came more quickly by the second, a panic attack building as she fought to get out of the room, and in her haste she smashed right into another party-goer. She managed not to gawp at his extraordinarily hooked nose, simply mumbling a breathless "sorry" before continuing her struggle to break free.

The night air hit her like a wave of calm, and as her breathing slowed she made her way to the huge ornate fountain, managing to sit on the cool stone with a sigh. The fountain was cool and calm, and the sweet release of the night air made her start to cry for reasons she did not even know. She let her hand trail in the cool, trickling water as her own tears trickled down her face.

The creamy moonlight was so perfect in every aspect, so beautiful and flattering in how it illuminated everything in such a delicate, subtle way. She was wrenched out of her tearful thoughts by soft footsteps, and when she turned her head in shock to see who this person was she began to cry again, in complete joy. Her Angel, her wonderful Angel, coming to the place he would be at his least comfortable simply to make sure she was alright...

"Angel!" she sobbed, suddenly losing all her control as she stood up and flung her arms around him, feeling him tense suddenly before relaxing and beginning to hold her. He stroked the chocolate brown curls of her hair with a soft hand, making soothing noises as she sobbed into his chest, pouring all her stresses and worried onto his capable shoulders. She felt warmer and safer than she had ever felt in his arms.

Erik, however, had nearly choked in shock of having this woman he loved so desperately throwing her arms around him. He had never been embraced like this, never felt this way before, and he was desperately pleased that he could hold her whilst she cried and hopefully soothe at least some of her pain. She looked so perfect in that white dress, so much like the dress she had worn the night of her first performance, like a Goddess of Moonlight. She looked so perfect and lovely and just so...so _Christine_ that it was all he could do not to kiss her.

"Angel." She breathed softly, clinging to him in her hysterical state. "Why are you here?"

Erik laughed darkly as he looked up at the moon with tired eyes. It was funny that she should ask the questions that had been playing on his mind ever since he had arrived at the ball. He was here to protect the woman in his arms, the woman he adored, from all that was evil, and yet _he_ was evil. She let go of him and looked up at him with hurt in here large brown eyes, confused no doubt as to why he was laughing like a madman. She reached out with a cool hand to touch his cheek, but he caught it before she could and held it within his own.

"I- I came for fear you would be suffering." He managed to eventually say, feeling a little awkward to be gripping her hand in such an intimate way. He had told himself that he wouldn't meet her here, that he wouldn't talk to her at all, to keep it professional...but how could he stand and watch her flee the room, crying?

"But...but you said that you would only be my Angel for one night!" she whispered, her voice cracking. Erik flinched as she sensed where this hysteria was building up to. Not now, he thought desperately, please don't say it all now when I am feeling so angry Christine... "You loathe me! I did such an awful thing to you, my Angel, and you loathe me for it!"

"I am not your Angel, remember?" he replied darkly yet still fairly softly. "I am not here as an Angel, Christine, I am here as the true man behind that title you gave me. You so desired to know me, remember, and because I was not what you wanted you saw fit to loathe me. I am Erik, if you recall, a dark demon rather than an angel. A hellish beast that you turned away on seeing the hideous state of my mangled face! No, Christine, it is not I who loathe you; it is you who loathes me!"

"No, Angel, no!" she wept. Erik scowled and stepped slightly away from her, hating all this now that it had begun. Why was it so hard to have a conversation they could not dispute the truth of? It had been easy to forget about real life when he had been soothing a hysterical woman through a window, but now in the bright light of the moon...there was no way to deny fact now.

"Don't call me that term that you stripped me of; my name is Erik, you know this!" he snapped and Christine stopped crying with a mournful hiccup. "Remember? Poor, poor Erik, poor unhappy Erik, the madman, the freak! Remember Christine?"

"Of course I remember." She replied softly, this time darting out to touch his cheek before he could fight her off. The cool silk of her skin felt like heaven on his flushed face, and Erik could feel his knees wobbling as he trembled a little. "But that man, poor unhappy Erik, is not standing here. That man who turned mad and kidnapped me is not before me now. You have changed...Erik."

Erik couldn't help but let the tears well up and spill over onto his cheeks as he heard her say his name without hatred or pity. She gave him a small smile as he wept silently, the tears trickling onto her hand.

"I am so sorry, Christine, so sorry. I cannot bear to see you so sad." He choked a little on the words that were so difficult to say and she shook her head gently as he spoke them.

"I am not sad, Erik."

He reached out with his own gloved hand and touched her cheek. Her eyes closed under his gentle caress, but he was simply rubbing away the powder over her bruise. He stopped and her eyes flashed open, and she gasped at the white powder stains on his black glove, her hand darting to her face. She winced as she pressed on the tender bruise, and refused to meet his gaze.

"Yes, you are." He said softly, nothing other than care for her in his voice this time. The cynical tone had well and truly faded. "After all, why else would you be talking to me, the evil one who scared you to death and nearly killed the boy you love?"

Christine bit her lip, tasting a bead of blood on her tongue, and was about to reply when suddenly there was a yell from the doors that opened out into the garden; the same doors she had fled out of to escape the heat and the stress.

"Christine? Christine, are you there? I have good news, my love!"

Raoul! Christine gasped and turned to bid a hasty goodbye to Erik, to tell him to hide until Raoul had gone, but when she did whirl round he had already vanished into the night. She felt hollow at the heart, taking a deep breath as she headed back inside. She felt as if she had been well and truly unmasked, and yet she still had the lace mask upon her face.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi! Here is another update for you all, with this chapter introducing a new character fully...and of course the consequences of Erik's spontaneous angel act. **

**A big smiley thank you to my reviewers; Christine Stein, TMara and Dkk5! Reviews are always loved! And now, chapter nine...**

**Nine- Devil Take The Hindmost  
(de Chagny Townhouse, Comte's Private Terrace)**

The early morning sun was already warm, low in the skies over Paris. Concealed from the public eye and hidden from the rushing and bustling traffic of horse cabs and pedestrians stood the lush gardens backing the de Chagny house, overlooked by several balconies, the largest of which belonging to the Comte.

Claude le Montier sighed irritably and kicked at the railings of the balcony, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare of the sun. He began to pace again, his unnecessary black coat sweeping out like a cape as he spun on his heel and violently changed direction. The heat of the sun was sweltering on the balcony and he hated sweating. It was a horridly unclean habit that made others think you were nervous, and Claude could not afford to look nervous now. Not when he already felt so.

Suddenly, without a word, the Comte came striding out of the double French doors and onto the balcony, taking a seat on one of two chairs. His jaw was set and his face was expressionless, save the slightly maddening twitch of one eye.

Claude spun round and felt his stomach clench worryingly. He waited.

"Is my request for you to follow her to the South really that difficult then, Monsieur?" the Comte eventually asked, his voice so icy Claude imagined the roses that were creeping up the wall freezing and withering as his words touched them. "Or perhaps you have simply forgotten how much I am paying you?"

"N-no, Monsieur Comte de Chagny." Claude replied, desperately trying to keep the stammer from his voice. There were not many who could break through his calm aura and turn him to a gibbering wreck, but if anyone could it was the malicious Comte. "I only meant to point out that in Paris it would be far easier, as I could use the crowds and the unsuspecting inhabitants to my aid. Such things would be harder outside of Paris-"

The Comte snarled, eye ablaze and irritable as he stood up in a flash and batted the chair he had sat upon aside as if it were a child's toy. He truly did resemble a grouchy old bear to Claude; stubborn, fierce, lumbering and irritable; flying off the handle into fiery tempers with no apparent cause.

"Gods teeth le Montier!" he growled, now kicking the chair for good measure before setting of on his own angered pacing around the spacious balcony. Claude took a step back, flush against the railings. "How hard can it be? She is a dumb woman, not a Professor! Just break into her room one night and shoot, don't faff about! If you actually put what little brain you have to good use, you could even get it over with whilst she remains in Paris. I don't care when, I don't care how, I just want it done well!"

Claude listened to the Comte as his rant trailed off into a series of unintelligible mumblings and grunts, feeling his heart pound a little anxiously. This arrangement was very odd; it had never been like this before. Normally it was just the task of chasing up debts for the Comte, usually using violence to get the various indebted to give them the money required. A few times the job had been to cause some trouble for rival land owners, or perhaps aiding the Comte in blackmail. But to be ordered to kill the Vicomtes wife, the Comte's own _daughter in law_?

The idea was unsettling. The Vicomtess always looked so little and innocent to Claude, not to mention a little lost in a world she barely knew. Christine de Chagny had a place in the heart of every Parisian for her kindness, for her past as a singer but most of all for her vulnerability. The working class saw her as their equal, thrust into a world she did not understand, and so supported her fully whilst loathing the de Chagnys for making her so weak.

Claude remembered Pierre's face as they had opened the letter. Pierre had said that this job was going to change things for them, make their lives so much easier with the rewards they were bound to reap. Claude had tried to feel the same, but couldn't.

He wanted with all his heart to march over to the sadistic Comte right now and tell him to find someone else to do his dirty work, to leave right then and go straight to the police and warn the poor girl of the horror that was about to befall. But the Comte held all Claude cared about in his tight grip; his farm, his rent, his wages. The entire le Montier family lived on de Chagny land, and to disobey the Comte would be signing their death warrant.

Swallowing back the words he so wished to give, Claude forced himself to look up from his booted feet and at the Comte.

"If you think such an action is wise, Comte." He watched the face of his cold-hearted employer, showing no emotion as usual. "And...might I just..."

"Spit it out, le Montier." The Comte snapped, like a disparaging school teacher.

"I just wanted to ensure that- that Pierre and I will not be apprehended and punished for this."

The old Comte was silent for a little moment, the sunlight glinting off of his silvery grey hair and making his papery skin look shiny and translucent. Then his sour mouth fell into a smile as he actually laughed, patting Claude's arm as if they were old school friends reunited. His blasé attitude was sickening.

"The only consequence for you and your brother will be the payment we discussed." He smiled, the hidden evil showing through in his cruel eyes, which glinted with malice. "Now. You must go at once, that same way in which you arrived. I have a meeting to attend in an hour or so and it would not do you any favours to be seen here."

"Good day, Monsieur." Claude nodded respectfully, the sweet relief of being able to at last leave the presence of this disgustingly heartless man only just hidden from his voice. He received no courteous reply from the Comte, who simply ignored him and strode back inside. The French doors slammed shut and the sound closed the meeting with undisputable finality.

As Claude climbed down from the balcony with practised ease he could only think that the Comte had disregarded a very major consequence of such dark matters. The consequence no one could evade; guilt. Claude hoped, with a bitterness that scared him, that the old Comte would suffer from guilt just as badly as he knew that he would after killing such an innocent woman.

_At the Giry Residence..._

As the rather melodious sound of rapid chatter rose in a swift crescendo, Antoinette couldn't fight back the smile that twitched onto her lips. She leaned back ever so slightly against the doorframe, feeling the bumps and irregularities of the wood dig into her straight back, and she watched the delightful scene unfold.

She wasn't quite sure of why her kitchen had been unceremoniously transformed into a conference room, with her kitchen table suffering many pounds from impassioned fists as the speaker made their point. She looked at them; Erik, Nadir and her daughter, discussing avidly and scribbling at a mile a minute on countless sheets of paper and she saw instead a group of children, perhaps arguing as to whom was the best at something, or playing a game. She knew though, that despite her whimsical ideas, the subject of this meeting was not light-hearted or indeed fun.

"I already explained a thousand times; there was nothing to discover regarding this mystery man." Nadir moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in an extremely vexed manner. "I tried to find such a man, but after what I can only describe as hours of strenuous searching I found nothing. But even if I did see him, it's not as if I would have known it was him. So no; I did not see him."

"You're sure?" Erik probed yet again, causing Nadir to groan dramatically and slam his head down against the table. "Completely sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Nadir whined, making Meg giggle. "Can we please move on before I lose my sanity?!"

Erik pulled a face and muttered under his breath, making Nadir shoot him a glare, but Meg simply reached for a new piece of paper and adjusted her posture, the look of determination still firmly set on her angelic face. Erik was amazed that her will to live was still intact after the last half hour.

"Well, let's truly move on then." She suggested, making Nadir cheer sarcastically. She threw a scrunched up piece of paper at him with a sweet smile, and continued. "Your turn to be questioned to the point of insanity, Erik; what did you see at the de Chagny ball last night?"

Erik's fading will power froze, shattered and was replaced by a sickening dread that built up in his stomach in a fairly nauseating fashion. He tried to take shallow breaths; his mind was reeling as he fought to decide what he should and should not tell them. In truth, he had been so occupied with watching Christine at the dratted ball he had seen little else. The meeting between himself and Christine had been intimate and probably against Nadir's unspoken rules, which he liked to pretend didn't really exist.

But he was the one who had demanded they help him in this search for the stranger and it was he who had already told both Meg and Nadir that if they did not tell him something he would personally destroy all the furniture in the house. It would not be fair to conceal something so drastic from them both.

With a feeling that he might be sick all over their notes, which were spread out on the vast expanse of wooden table, he decided to say it all.

"I searched a little, but the very nature of the ball made it hard to determine what was real and what was costume. You've seen these masquerade balls, when people go to ridiculous lengths to dress up like buffoons- never mind." He stopped and licked his lips, well aware of the fact that his breathing was ragged and that he sounded panicked. "I was distracted then by- I came across Christine sobbing. The truth of the matter is that I went to- to comfort her and we talked for a short while. That is everything."

Meg was beaming before the words were even forced out of his mouth, her bright blue eyes dancing with triumph but Nadir looked deeply concerned, his brow furrowed and his eyes clouded with concern and disapproval. Erik immediately felt the impulse to leap up and slap the Persian for being such an old woman, but he calmed himself as it struck him that poor old Nadir only wanted the best for him, like some demented father figure.

"And did your talk dredge up anything vaguely significant?" Nadir asked flatly, his eyes staring resolutely at the table. Erik, despite his determination to remain calm, felt his fists clench involuntarily. If Nadir wanted to behave like child, then Erik would let him get on with it.

Meg, however, had other ideas. She squealed like a happy little piglet, leaning forward with exaggerated excitement and begging Erik for details regarding the conversation. She thought up the oddest of questions that Erik did not even know how to answer, becoming rather flustered, until Antoinette tactfully cut in and dragged Meg out shopping. Erik turned to Nadir as the sounds of Megs whining and Antoinette's stern replies faded out, expecting to see humour in his friends eyes, but he was still staring at the table.

"Well, I suppose that we had better-"

But Erik never got a chance to finish that harmless little sentence, as in the next moment Nadir stood up and brought his clenched fist down on the table with a colossal crash that reverberated around the room. It took a second or so for Erik to actually comprehend that it was Nadir, the infamously calm Nadir, who had just caused that ear-splitting crash. His eyes darted first to the table, expecting a huge hole from where Nadirs fist had smashed into it, and then to the face of his friend.

Nadir looked like he might explode.

"Why are you so- so stupid, Erik?!" he demanded, anger and yet also hurt filling his glinting eyes. "You cannot leave Christine alone, can you? You're incapable! How many times have you gone to her now?! And it's no use telling me that last night was your first meeting with her, _I can see it in your eyes, Erik!_ Why didn't you TELL me?"

Erik instantly flared up at the fiery accusations, standing up with such force that his chair fell backwards. He was trembling, wound tight like a spring, and his face slowly began to turn a deep and dangerous red. The half concealed by a mask stood out against the mass of seething red; a look that would have been comical if it were not for the look of insanity in his wild eyes.

"This is NONE of your concern!" he hissed, an angry snake provoked and ready to strike. "What does it even matter, Khan? It is not as if you know what will help me, what will help to end this maddening feeling that can only be insanity-"

"YOU ARE NOT HELPING YOURSELF!" Nadir bellowed; his own face a red that could easily challenge Erik's. "Can you not see, Erik? If you just _left her alone_ you would not even be thinking about her! She is perfectly safe, perfectly happy, completely recovered from the hell you dragged her through so you must _leave her alone and get on with your life!"_

"But she is NOT safe!" Erik yelled back, forgetting all his past intentions to keep a lid on his temper and to attempt to hide his midnight visit to Christine from Nadir. It was no use now; the Persian was fully aware of how weak he was. "She is potentially at risk from this unknown man we seek and then there is the matter of her evil, monstrous, _vile_ husband! How can I not care, Nadir, when she is suffering every waking moment?!"

"Whether Christine de Chagny is beaten by her husband or not is none of your concern." Nadir snapped, his lips pursed as if he had just tasted the sour juice of a lemon.

"Wait- WHAT?" Erik froze, Nadir's words registering in his brain with sickening clarity. He felt- oh he could not even begin to describe the anger he felt! "How did you know that she- DEAR GOD KHAN I AM GOING TO THROTTLE YOU!"

As Nadirs face bloomed with panic Erik lunged for him, a crazed animal driven wild by what he had just realised. Nadirs secret, the secret that had made him jumpy and nervous the other day- he had known that Christine was being beaten and yet _hadn't even told him!_

"How could you not tell me, HOW COULD YOU?!" he bellowed, remembering the anguish that had filled his body when he had gazed in upon her and seen the foul bruise emblazoned on her creamy skin. He recalled the gagging, the choking, the feeling that he was about to hunt down Raoul de Chagny and beat him to death...it could have all been avoided. "How could you not have told me; ME?!"

"For fear of this reaction!" Nadir yelled, diving out of the way of Erik's lethal grip and running round to the opposite side of the table, shielding himself with a chair. He felt a little bubble of fear burst inside him, but the adrenaline was coursing through his veins at such a high rate he was not hindered by it. "I was scared you would kill Raoul!"

"I WILL!" Erik cried, anguish in every pained syllable as he stopped dead in his tracks, his mission to throttle Nadir collapsing alongside his anger. His face was that of a distraught child. "How could he have done that, Nadir? I gave her up to him, I gave up my Christine and let him have her and now he makes her his punch bag? To raise a hand to an innocent woman-! Khan, he seems more evil- more evil than _me_!"

Nadir gasped as Erik suddenly collapsed to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been dropped. He leapt forward, thrown into a blinding panic that his friend was having a heart attack or some other destructive collapse. But Erik moved; curling himself into a little ball and pressing his face into his knees. He wasn't crying, Nadir knew this because Erik's shoulders were still, but when he did lift his face it was contorted with horrible pain that Nadir instantly knew was ripping him apart.

"Erik-" he uttered the word softly, already regretting his own anger and he knelt down beside his friend. But as he reached out to touch Erik's shoulder, he held up one hand as if to stop him.

"No, Nadir." Came the quiet and surprisingly calm reply. It was a polar opposite of how Erik looked, all curled up and at his wits end. Nadir sat down heavily, facing him. "Look at all I've caused. It is...it is horrendous, isn't it? I scared her, I forced her with my evil to hastily marry in order to escape me, I've damned her to a marriage she cannot ever escape- but you know the cruel thing, Khan? She looked me in the eyes, and she forgave me. She forgave every last act of evil by simply bearing my presence, she knows I am a changed man- and yet she still suffers."

"You cannot-" Nadir began to argue, but still Erik refused to let him cut into his speech, imploring him with his eyes to remain quiet. Nadir was shocked when he looked into Erik's eyes then. For in those eyes he saw complete sanity; he saw the eyes of a perfectly normal and decent human being. It made him lapse into silence.

"But that is not even the worst part of this whole mess. The worst part, Nadir, is that she still prefers her fop to me; she still sees him as a good man compared to me. She looked and me and in her eyes saw a poor lost soul that she should pity and- and tolerate." A few stricken tears did roll down his cheeks then, his eyes closing in order to stop the flow. "I love her, Nadir. I love Christine more than I ever imagined loving anyone- I love her more than life. God, it kills me to think her name, let alone to say it aloud...I have destroyed the very person I would gladly die for! No-one can ever understand- you will never know how horrifying this feels!"

Erik began to rock himself to and fro, his face buried back into his knees. He looked like a small child then more than ever, crying and lost without anyone to comfort him.

"I should have known. I should have kept watch, stopped him from beating her-" he began to whisper over and over in an agonised mantra. To watch such a scene unfold felt like someone had just jabbed a red hot poker straight into Nadir's still beating heart and so he decided enough was enough.

He shifted a little closer to his friend, sliding along Antoinette's kitchen floor on his knees, at last reaching his crumpled friend and grasping his cold hand to console him. Erik did not even acknowledge Nadir's presence beside him, continuing his mumblings relentlessly.

"Erik." Nadir whispered softly, unsure as to whether his friend would hear the soft words over his own maddened chanting. "This is hard for me to say, as it goes against every instinct inside me, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps for you the only closure you will ever receive is to help Christine de Chagny. If- if this is the case, and you wish to attempt such a task...I am with you all the way."

Erik stopped and his words came to a juddering halt. His breathing was heavy and laboured and the exposed half of his face was bone white. Nadir could not fail to notice how Erik was clenching his fists so tightly that he had obviously cut himself with his own nails; there was blood. He opened his tired eyes and stared straight at Nadir, looking both amazed and doubtful at once.

"Could you...could you perhaps repeat yourself?" he asked softly and Nadir would have rolled his eyes normally.

"I said, Erik, that if you really think that the only way you can live a normal life is to help Christine de Chagny first, I will help you." Nadir repeated, managing to keep the irritation out of his tone.

"I thought you said it, but I could not be sure." He said, dazed. "You would really do such a thing? You would help me undo these tormented years and all the pain I caused my poor Christine?"

Nadir did roll his eyes this time, sighing as he nodded.

"You are such a glutton for punishment." Nadir added in a murmur, trying not to smile at the inexplicable level of happiness that was now plastered over Erik's drawn face. "In the end, whilst I do not like others to suffer needlessly, I only truly care about you and your well-being. If you really do love the wretched girl as you say you do, and if you really think that to help her in whatever strange way you have probably already devised will be of benefit to you, I will do nothing except aid you."

Nadir shifted a little awkwardly on the kitchen floor, wriggling uncomfortably as he steeled himself to say the next words.

"I am sorry that I shouted, too...I suppose I was a little surprised to not know everything for once." He offered sheepishly, feeling much better when Erik laughed at him.

Erik, too, was feeling amazingly happy for once. His laugh echoed around the room, unable to be contained. It was a rare moment when he found himself so full of happiness he had to laugh to somehow let it out, but today was one of those sweet, blissful times. After all the feelings of terrible helplessness and suffering, to go to such a promise from Nadir to be able to put right all the wrongs he had done to Christine- the feeling was marvellous.

Erik knew, deep inside his stubborn heart, that his love for Christine would always be unrequited. Yet right now he did not dwell on the pain of such a thing; all he could feel was the joy of the prospect that he could possibly be her true friend. He wanted with all his heart to be all his Angel of Music 'title' had required; to care for her, to talk to her, to be there for her and to become a real friend she could trust entirely. He could hardly want for more.

"Erik." Nadir cautioned as Erik's laughter rose to a whole new level, bordering on hysterical. "We had better talk this through...this is still a delicate matter, and to go storming ahead without a second thought would most likely be detrimental to your heart."

"I am open to discussion." Erik managed to say calmly, his laughter fading as he tried to adopt a professional approach, and Nadir swatted him about the head with a grin.

"I think that first on the agenda must be to involve Christine. No offense meant to you, Erik, but if she was only being polite and is truthfully scared to death about ever seeing you again then the idea of your helping her is out of the question." Nadir began, his eyes a little wary as he suddenly thought of something. "Meg and Antoinette should also be included, as they care for Christine and will be glad to help her. They may prove useful for the...er...female things you do not understand."

Erik nodded eagerly, pleased that Nadir was taking it all so seriously. He seemed to actually want to help him to put his wrongs right, and his enthusiasm to find the mysterious man had not wavered once.

"Only...Erik?" Nadir looked very concerned.

"Yes?" Erik quickly replied, not wanting to let any shadow of doubt remain in Nadirs mind, as it might make him reconsider this whole idea.

"Just...just promise me that you will not murder Raoul de Chagny?" Nadir sounded unsure.

All Erik could do was throw back his head and laugh.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi, I have another update for you all; chapter ten! Reviews are always loved, which brings me onto a huge thank you for; Christine Stein, icanhearthedrums, Hugabouv, Dkk5, TMara and Maddy- your comments are very much appreciated *huge smile*.**

**Ten- Every Hope and Every Prayer Rests on You Now  
(The Giry Residence)**

Meg Giry felt like her head might explode. Her face was flushed and glowing with heat, the smile plastered upon it could not have stretched further and the high pitched shriek of joy that filled the room was more triumphant than the majestic blast of a trumpet. She danced about the kitchen with as much precision and effort as if she were on the actual stage before an audience of hundreds; only the audience now consisted of her cat, a table and two very confused looking men.

Their faces were the epitome of confusion, which only served to make Meg throw back her head and laugh. How could they not understand her exhilaration? To hear that Erik and Nadir were planning to somehow ensure the happiness of poor Christine was one thing, but to be asked to help them with such an important task...?!

"I'm sorry about that." She gasped for breath, pulling out a chair and wincing a little as the legs scraped along the floor and an ear-splitting screech resounded around the room. She flopped into the said chair, and gave her bewildered guests another huge grin. "You might have to repeat the question- I got a little bit excited."

"A little?" Nadir asked, but his tone was kind and it was accompanied by a fond smile. "I asked your opinion on how we should go about this...aid mission, if you like."

"And, if you have an opinion, what we should do first." Erik added quickly, the agitation in his voice clear for all to hear. He tried to stop his leg from trembling under the table, as Meg's cat looked like it wanted to pounce on the rapidly moving limb, but he couldn't.

Meg looked thoughtful for a moment, playing absent-mindedly with a strand of golden hair. She did not seem reluctant, like Nadir, or stressed, like Erik. It only took a short moment for her to reach her verdict, and with a sparkle in her cornflower blue eyes she very simply said;

"Why, you must ensure that Christine doesn't leave Paris!"

Nadir and Erik looked at each other in synchronisation that made Meg want to laugh, but the faces of the two men ruined the hilarity. They both looked confused, Erik even slightly irritated, and Meg felt her face slip into a pout. She appreciated that her idea was not a work of genius, but what were they expecting? A suggestion to seize two stallions and go charging into the de Chagny home flailing swords, like some sort of joke?

"Well there is no need to look quite so disappointed with my suggestion." Meg commented a little sulkily, leaning forward to rest her chin on her arms, which lay folded on the table.

"Then you should not suggest something so stupid." Erik replied pointedly. "Why would she be leaving Paris anyway? Her family is here, her home is here; it's not as if she has anywhere else to go, is it?"

"You seem to forget that Paris is not where she and Raoul live." Meg replied, losing a little of her scorn as she realised they knew little of the practical details, such as whom lived where. "Christine and Raoul live in a villa in the south of France; I was under the impression that they only came to Paris because the Comte and Raoul needed to secure a business deal of some description. It would not be unrealistic to assume that they will be returning to the South soon, if not within the next few weeks."

This time Nadir and Erik looked at one another with slightly sheepish expressions, though Erik's face also displayed a look of slight horror. He remembered now, listening to Meg's firm reasoning, that Christine had rambled on about the South of France when he had gone to her window. She loved it there, and so would be begging that fop to return as soon as she could.

Meg saw, with satisfaction, that her reasoning had taken some effect on both men. As they began to whisper hurriedly, the words sounding like puffs of steam from a train, she smiled to herself. She knew that her suggestion was in fact crucial to whatever they planned to do, as well as having extreme practicalities. Erik and Nadir knew this city well, as did she, and in the South they would not have this golden knowledge. Here in Paris there were crowds, alleys, busy streets and all sorts of street goers who could happily spill anything you wanted to know for the right price. Who knew if the South had these helpful bonuses? They all had homes here in Paris, another practicality, and nearly every other citizen was an ally, as they all despised the de Chagnys.

If they allowed Christine to return to the South of France, anything they planned would become harder, if not impossible.

Meg had also decided to raise this suggestion due to her own motives; if Christine remained in Paris then Meg knew she truly could help Erik and Nadir, perhaps even trying to secure meetings for Christine and Erik in a hope that romance would blossom. The plight of poor Erik and the desperation and mistreatment of her childhood friend filled Meg with unimaginable anger and thus the determination to ensure that the situation was ended correctly.

Nadir had the wrong intentions in her eyes; he only cared about ensuring Erik would not have another lapse in his sanity, whereas she dreamed of a future of romance and passion between Erik and Christine.

"Hmm." Nadir said finally, sipping his tea and dragging Meg from all her dreamy fantasies. "I suppose, then, that your suggestion is the only way forward. If we were to secure the Vicomtess in Paris, I would be able to continue with my search for this unknown man in a familiar setting, which always helps. The only reason I can think of to take this operation away from Paris is to test if the man follows her, but as we assume he is following her anyway..."

"My own plans rest upon the setting of Paris, even if your own do not." Erik cut in, sounding confident as he gazed into nothing, looking thoughtful.

"Your own plans?" Nadir asked a little scathingly, one eyebrow arched perfectly.

"Yes. My plans to watch and guard her each night at the de Chagny townhouse-"

Erik never did get the chance to finish his explanation to the scornful Nadir, as at this moment Meg gasped aloud, her heart fluttering in the delight of the situation.

"Oh Erik, how romantic! Just like Romeo and Juliet; the balcony, the moonlight...!" she beamed; turning a little pink as both men turned and looked at her. Nadir was looking disgruntled but Erik looked amused by her outburst.

"I was sure that Romeo and Juliet both died..." Nadir muttered to himself, aware that no-one cared for his opinions but deciding to voice them anyway. He contented himself with muttering under his breath as he poured everyone's second cup of tea, whilst Erik managed a wry smile for Meg and her childish joy at everything he did or said regarding Christine.

"No, Meg, not a romantic gesture I assure you, despite the opinions of that grumpy old man muttering to himself who is sat beside you." He replied, shooting Nadir a meaningful look which received a humoured scowl in return. "To watch over her at night is simply my own way of ensuring her safety. The gossips say that she and the fop do not even sleep in the same room these days, so she is alone and at risk."

Meg saw the unspoken joy in his eyes at Christine's lack of intimacy with Raoul, whom he rightly hated, but she also knew that if something upset Christine, it was sure to upset Erik. For what felt like the hundredth time now, Meg wondered why on earth self-centred Raoul, who had bossed Christine about like a child, had appealed more than Erik. But then again, Meg always forgot the kidnapping part to the story. It was so easy to forget Erik's past persona as an evil Phantom when he seemed such a kind and loving man.

"Ah, that reminds me..." he said suddenly, and Meg looked up startled. Had she accidently said her musings aloud? Her mother had always told her to never bring such things up with Erik, for fear of upsetting him, but he did not look at all upset. She mentally breathed a sigh of relief as he produced a letter from his pocket. He quickly added what looked like a sentence, before folding it and tucking it back into the envelope. "I'll need you to post this for me, if you will?"

She nodded her agreement, taking the small little envelope and seeing his elegant handwriting on the front; 'Christine'. Her heart gave another flip.

"A letter for Christine." Erik smiled a little hesitantly as he answered the question he had seen in Megs eyes. "To explain why she might catch a glimpse of me sat outside her bedroom window every night."

Meg laughed a little breathlessly as she looked at his smile. It transformed his face, changed him completely, and she had to force herself to look away sharply. She could feel heat on her cheeks as she looked down at her feet, silent. Now she felt awkward, shifting her posture on the wooden seat as she self-consciously and discreetly touched her hair. What am I doing, she thought acidly, I'm being stupid. He's not even looking- wait, why do I even care?

"So now we come to the main priority and consequently my area of this whole plan." Nadir teased, and Meg looked at him, pleased that she now had something to think about and distract her stupid self. Nadir watched as Erik began to fidget again, desperate for the real planning to begin at last. "The hunt for the unknown man...ideas, anyone?"

_Later that day, the de Chagny Townhouse_

Christine de Chagny flopped down onto her bed, utterly exhausted. She lay there, staring up at the ornate ceiling, before sitting up and pulling her hair free of all the pins and clips that had made her head start to pound when her maid had put them in. She shook her glossy curls free and then lay back again, comfortable to just do nothing for once. She had spent a long, painfully humiliating day shopping with Raouls sisters, suffering their cruel jokes and snide remarks in silence. She had been fitted for several new dresses, and whilst she did enjoy getting new clothes, the hurtful comments still rung in her ears and made her feel very sad.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted her lounging, and she sat up quickly and tried to look dignified as her maid came in silently, bearing a silver tray.

"Yes, Jeanne?" Christine asked kindly, though she was well aware that most of the servants in this cruel household hated her. "How can I help?"

"A letter, Madame." Jeanne sniffed, walking over and offering the letter to her. She took it, surprised, and thanked Jeanne. She received no reply. The letter was little and seemed to radiate an air of intrigue. Christine flipped it over and saw her name written in a beautifully elegant script that set her heat beating faster. It sent shivers down her spine to even contemplate that it might be- and yet it _was_ from him!

_Christine,_

_I am writing to make you aware that a situation has occurred that will affect you. I cannot disclose detail as to what this means, but you should not be worried. With your consent I will be ever guarding you, as an Angel should, and you should not be alarmed to hear or see someone outside your window at night; it is me. I do ask, however, that you remain in Paris. This will seem strange request, perhaps it will even appear as a jest to you. But it is not; you must remain in Paris. I implore you._

_If you remain in Paris, you need never fear._

_Erik._

The letter and its seemingly sinister contents both scared and thrilled her as she scanned the words again and again. She felt strangely wonderful that Erik would be coming to watch over her every single night, delighting in the chance that she might even get to talk with him again. But the request that she stay in Paris made an icy cold shard of fear plunge into her heart.

It would be difficult to persuade Raoul to stay, and harder still to not return to that place she so adored. But the most worrying thing was that something had occurred that meant she needed Erik's unrequested protection. What on earth could have happened that would cause such a threat to her safety? It made her feel a little paranoid, to say the least.

With the supposed threat to her safety hanging ominously in the balance, Christine decided on impulse that it would be wise to act upon Erik's requests sooner rather than later. She couldn't explain why, even to herself, but she felt a complete trust in him, as if she could somehow tell that his motives where in her best interests. She felt shocked; how had she gone from loathing to trusting him without seeing him for three whole years?

But there was also the idea that to follow his requests would hopefully release some more information regarding this apparent situation, which would make her feel far more comfortable. Feeling her heart fly like the wings of a hummingbird, she reached out towards her desk and found some paper and ink. She wrote quickly and efficiently, taking the time to read and re-read the words she unleashed onto the open expanse of paper.

_Erik,_

_Whilst I cannot even begin to express my curiosity as to what this apparent problem is, I am also filled with awe, gratitude and respect for you. I cannot think of anyone, at present, who would be prepared to go to the extent that you describe to ensure my safety, and so I must thank you with all my heart. I would sincerely like to know you better, so perhaps this arrangement can be deemed as good? I do not know what you know, though, so I dare not speculate further._

_Your parting comment from when we last met has tormented me since. I think that it is high time you know that I have forgiven you for your actions and hope that you would forgive my own. In those distant days I was a foolish child, worthy of nobody and so capable of hurting everyone without even intending to. Your music still haunts me to this very day and I look at myself and see how pitiful I am compared to you. You continue to flourish despite whatever you have been through and my voice is in dire need of tuning after living in relative ease. I never did thank you for making my voice worthy of your heavenly music- so thank you._

_I will speak to you soon then?_

_Yours,_

_Christine_

Christine put the letter down with a thoughtful sigh, curious now. She sang a line from her very last opera performance trying not to shudder at the memory of that dreadful night, and she pleased herself as she hit each note perfectly. The precision was haunting, but something was missing- a fundamental dynamic gone. It was the extra ethereal quality that had always been provoked by her shadowy tutor, Erik. He had always brought out some hidden part to her voice and spurred something else within her; the ability to make her voice soar and shine like that of the angels themselves. But without Erik, this was gone.

Trying to put these thoughts aside, she slipped the letter into her jewellery box and hurried out of the room, pulling at her hair in an attempt to make it look presentable as she hurried along. It was time to make her request to Raoul; the request to remain in Paris and go against everything she had ever said. With any luck, his new business venture would force them to stay in Paris anyway, which would hopefully mean that they could find their own home instead of staying with the cruel Comte.

Christine told herself that she would be brave. Despite her husband's seemingly good mood since the ball, a night that had brought the man she had fallen in love with out of his cold shell, she still felt her heart thud unevenly with fear. The changes in Raoul since they had married were many; one being his new temper, and lack of patience. He could fly into rages that seemed to have no meaning, only to lapse into a stony silence the next. He could be loving and funny, or cruel and spiteful. Christine saw no reason for why his mood changed so drastically, and it made her doubt everything about their relationship.

Christine found herself wishing for the love she had known before their marriage, when she had been scared for her life and he had been loyal and loving and passionate. She often remembered how he used to kiss her, or tell her he loved her, as she lay awake in bed at night; alone. He slept in another room these days, and most nights he was out until the early hours in taverns and the like anyway. There had been several times now where Christine had looked at her husband and felt no love. She was always horrified when this happened, and it was a rare thing, but still she had experienced what it felt like to look deeply into his eyes and feel nothing at all.

In these instances, she always felt a fondness for him rather than the burning passion that had been there at the start of their relationship. The first time she had gazed into his eyes and felt no love was the night she found him in his room with a woman she did not know, doing things that had stung her to the core. He had told her that night that he was a fool, a terrible man, and that he would do anything to apologise for this lapse in his faithfulness. But Christine had known he did not mean it, as he had done it again and again, and she had looked into those eyes and felt nothing for him. He could have been a stranger for all she felt that night.

She found Raoul in the study with his father, an extra person that made her nearly tremble and gag, but she still forced herself to enter and walk up to them with a smile on her pale face. They were deep in conversation, Raouls back to her, so it was the Comte who saw her standing there. He gave her a thin, cold smile that spoke more of hatred than anything else.

She hated her father-in-law. She could not deny it. And now he was going to be here to witness her seemingly ridiculous plea to stay in Paris.

"Raoul." The Comte said in a calm, flat voice that made the hairs stand up on the back of Christine's neck. "Your wife."

"Christine!" Raoul looked up from the letter he was drafting, turning round to face her fully. He smiled and kissed her cheek, his lips soft and gentle, and she felt like she might cry at how pleasant he was being. "You're looking rather well; beautiful. How was your shopping trip?"

"Thank you." Christine forced a smile. The day shopping felt like years ago; she was entirely consumed with thoughts regarding the letter and her reason for being here, nothing else. "The shopping trip was lovely. What is this you're working on?"

"The future of the de Chagny family, Christine. It is our new business proposal, you see. We will be rich!" he laughed, like a proud little boy who had just built himself a toy from twigs and sticks. Christine bit back the reply she longed to give; _we are already plenty rich, darling._ "Anyway, what brings you here? Are you ready to start your packing?"

His casual words felt like a cue in an opera. She had been given the perfect opportunity to voice her request, and still she felt apprehensive. She gulped a little; glad Raoul had looked down at the letter in his hand, and managed another strained smile.

"Ah, my love, I was actually wondering if we could possibly remain in Paris?" she faced her fear and just said the words with no fuss, despite the feeling of dread in her chest, knotting uncomfortably. His face went blank with confusion as he looked up and into her eyes, frowning.

"But...why?" he demanded, puzzled. "You love the south of France, Christine, you said so yourself just the other day!"

Christine felt flustered as the Comte too looked up and straight at her with those unfeeling eyes, almost as if he could see why she was being so irrational with this request. She shifted from foot to foot, though she fought not to, and felt her face turn a painful red. She had hoped that it would be easy...but no. When had her life ever taken the easy route for once?

"Well, my love, I...I have discovered that...that, well, I sorely missed the city and all its delights." She said, covering up her hesitation by feigning sadness, making her voice sound as feeble as she could manage. "There is such a sense of home for me here...not to mention the social life I have found. I had great fun with your sisters today."

Now Raoul really did look perplexed. He knew that his sisters loathed her, and that the other lords and ladies in the area looked down upon her as if she were a rat. He stared at her, gaping, his eyes wide and filled with confusion.

"Well, I- I am sorry darling, but we must leave Paris." He said faintly, trying to recover from the shock of this request. He sat down heavily, still struggling to comprehend the situation. "I have no choice but to go to the south for this business proposal. I am sorry."

Christine had reached a state of desperation. She would need to somehow convince him or she would never see Erik again- her fear at this shocked her. Why-? But before she had time to really question her own feelings, or protest against Raouls final word, the Comte butted in. His cool voice was a shock to hear; she had forgotten that he was even in the room.

"Ah, now son." He chided calmly, making Christine immediately suspicious of why he was so eager to agree with her. Surely he would want to be rid of her? "Your wife has suffered a great deal lately...surely if it soothes her to remain in Paris, then she should be allowed to stay."

"_Father! Business requires my presence in the south! You said-" _Raoul began to complain in a tight voice, hinting at another fierce temper, but the Comte once again cut him off.

"I never said that you both had to remain in Paris, did I?" the Comte talked to Raoul condescendingly, and Christine knew that he was the only man that could do so and not receive the wrath of her husband. Raoul was scared of his father; and who wouldn't be? "You can go alone, and Christine can remain here. We will, of course, take good care of her."

The icy, chilled voice of the Comte sent another wave of shivers down Christine's spine, and every instinct she had was screaming for her to protest, and just go with Raoul to the south. There was something odd and sinister about the Comte's proposal, making her tremble. But Erik wanted her to remain in Paris, and she would do this, even if it meant suffering a few paranoid emotions.

"Oh, Raoul, that would be so lovely for me. I just feel so run down and tired at the moment; the city revives me." She forced the words out along with a smile, and she made herself face the Comte despite her urges to run screaming from the room. "Thank you, sir..."

"Oh, nonsense. Anything for my daughter in law." The Comte smiled, and it looked so genuine that had Christine not already seen it countless times she would have been fooled. His sudden kindness was arousing true suspicion and fear within her. It didn't make sense for him to be so nice.

Raoul didn't look best pleased as he began to pace before the fireplace, the warmth of the summer evening meaning that it was not lit. His face was distressed, confused even. Christine felt am little sorry for him; he knew that his father did not like her and so was as confused as she regarding the sudden open armed gesture. He was also bound to be a little shocked that she didn't want to return home with him, preferring to stay in a city filled with people who did not even like her. The pang of pity grew as he crossed the room to stand before her, gripping her hand as if he were a small scared child, needing comfort.

"You're sure about this?" he asked softly, a slight frown still on his face. "You'll not get lonely on your own? If you'd only wait a year at most, we could be back in Paris after a short stay in the south, together-"

"I'm sure I will find plenty to do, Raoul." She cut him off gently, not able to bear the plea in his voice. "I'm sure I will be missing you so much that I will come down to meet you after a few months anyway- I just need to try and stop feeling so delicate. I hate feeling like a fool."

She hesitantly reached for his hand and caressed it, feeling the smooth skin warm beneath her finger tips. She looked into his eyes and with a sickening thud realised that there was only that aggravating fondness, no passion- she felt sickened by the idea of kissing him now. The adoration act...it was the opposite of how she felt right then, and she could only pray that some time without him would make her fall fully back in love with her husband.

"Then it's settled." The Comte cleared his throat nosily, casing Raoul to drop her hand as if it were an unpleasant object. The Comte came over and put an arm around his son's shoulders, ever so discreetly pushing Christine out of the familial embrace. "And now we need to return to our accounting."

Christine gladly took the poorly disguised hint and fled the room as quickly as she could, feeling tears begin to well up of their own accord. She did not even bother to give her meek goodbye; she couldn't force herself to say it. The Comte made her feel paranoid and Raoul...her lack of love towards him today had been the worst yet. She was scared by how quickly her feelings were fading; rapidly dissolving due to the hate he could throw at her. She forced herself to hold back the tears and strode off towards the library, her next move already planned in her head.

After pacing in the library for what felt like a year, though it was really only a few minutes, Christine reached the eventual decision to somehow communicate with Erik properly. It would have to be through Meg, as Christine had no idea as to where Erik was staying, or if he even was living anywhere.

If Megs lack of surprise when Erik had burst into the kitchen that frightful day was anything to go on, Christine could predict that Meg knew all about Erik. She probably knew all about the Angel of Music stories too, and how cruel she had been to Erik...Christine told herself to be quiet. Panicking would be a stupid thing to do, and she liked to think that she was not stupid. If Meg knew Erik well, then Christine could simply post any letters to the Girys and tell them to pass them on to Erik.

Pleased with her solution, Christine grabbed a few sheets and paper and a pot of ink, and she had written nearly half of her correspondence when she remembered that she would probably see Erik this evening anyway. The letter from earlier, stashed into her jewellery box, was already forgotten. She would be able to talk to Erik when he came to the window; there was no need for clever solutions to the correspondence problem. Irritated and childishly put off by this, Christine scrunched up this new letter and stuffed it up her sleeve, planning to burn it in the next fire to be lit so that no-one would ever be able to read it.

She would have to address every single issue that she had planned to write to Erik face to face, and the prospect was horrifying. It would be humiliating, to say the least, and she dreaded what he might say in reply to all her ramblings. At least in a letter there were no cruel laughs or snorts, or even a glint in the eyes of the person you were communicating with. Face to face, there was no way to hide from the truth.

As she contemplated the conversation they might have, Christine felt strange stirrings in her confused heart. The thought of her mentor, her Angel, was making her feel foolish and hopeless. Cursing herself for being a complete wretch, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the library, not noticing that the badly crumpled letter, half finished and yet still perfectly clear, had fallen to the floor.

_Erik,_

_I have secured it with my husband that I will stay in Paris whilst he travels to the South of France alone. I am anxious to see you again, so that we might talk and you can tell me why my presence in Paris is so important. I suppose that with Raoul gone it will be far easier for you to come here, which can only be good. I will leave my curtains open slightly each night, and the doors onto the balcony unlocked so that you can come inside-_


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello again! Sorry about the cliffy yesterday; but here's another chapter to compensate for it :-) Reviews are always loved, so for this reason I say THANK YOU to my reviewers: Hugabouv, TMara, Christine Stein and icanhearthedrums! *big smile***

**So, back to Erik and co.! **

**Eleven- And Music, Your Music, It Teases At My Ear  
(The Giry Residence)**

The luxurious melody that was rolling around the room like lazy waves on the shore abruptly stopped with a loud crash of conflicting notes and a sigh of frustration. Erik tried to stop the groan from escaping his lips, conscious of the girl stood next to him, but he could not help it.

"What did I do?" Meg asked, not sounding at all bothered by the irate look on Erik's face. She peered at the music score with the intensity of a scholar reading their studies, her face creased into an unusual frown as she concentrated. "I sang that correctly, I'm sure of it."

"You hit the note, Meg, but you need to _breathe_ before you sing that line." Erik replied, eyes shut with the will not to storm off. His only other pupil had already known about the technicalities to singing and his patience was starting to wear thin. Meg had a beautiful voice; there was no denying the fact. She did, however, lack control and order in her singing. "If you breathe before that line you will be able to hit the high F with power."

Megs face suddenly bloomed with understanding, and she struggled to contain her laughter. She was perfectly happy with being corrected, often accepting criticism as if it were gold and using the often sharp words to improve her performances. As she hummed the tune of the song under her breath, her eyes still locked upon the dark notation that was adorning the paper, Erik looked down at his black gloved hands and closed his eyes. Meg was a delightful pupil, with her happy attitude and the way she made him laugh with her hilarious faces whilst she sang, but teaching her to sing was making him feel dreadful.

He adored the fact that Meg was bright and cheery, always smiling even through her mistakes, but he found himself craving a different face, with awed and slightly wary eyes, innocence shining from them like light. He wanted it to be Christine stood there, to make him tremble with the perfection of her voice and to bring light to his dark chords. He wanted to sing with that angel voice, the one he had coaxed and trained and given startling perfection too, and he wanted to see her smile as his music brought happiness to her life.

He would not duet with Meg. He would refuse, should she ask. His voice had only ever been combined with one other; Christine's. That legacy was not going to be tainted.

He looked up at Meg, whose eyes were darting from side to side as she read and re-read the music, and he once again was struck by how odd it felt to be teaching again. Erik knew he was a wretch, and pathetic, and he had never been in a position to better someone else; it would have been hypocritical. Teaching Christine how to sing, and bestowing upon her his only joy, had been an odd and often terrifying experience for him; yet now here he was, tutoring again.

He realised, when Meg's eyes left the paper and looked straight into his own, that he was still staring straight at her as he mused. He hastily looked away, knowing it was considered rude to stare, and Meg went a little pink as she awkwardly tugged at her clothes.

"I think I have corrected my error, now." She said, her voice still bright despite her uncomfortable facial expression. "Can we try again?"

Erik nodded, glad to have something to do at long last, and he gently laid his fingers down upon the black and white keys spread out before him. He took a moment, as he always did, before the melody began to sweetly drift up and through the room. Meg stood perfectly still, her face solemn, and her voice met the melody with astounding precision. Erik was a little shocked by this, used to her slightly sloppy approach, and when he stole a glance at her he saw how she was not smiling. She looked as if she were concentrating with all her might, fighting to get it perfect.

She remembered to breathe at the place Erik had dictated, and the troublesome note fell as easily from her lips as if she had been talking causally to a friend. It was as clear as a bell, and filled the room utterly, causing her to drop the professional stance and laugh again, her smile returned. She looked ecstatic.

"You, Erik, are an amazing tutor!" she beamed, swinging her arms wildly as she bounced a little on the spot, her eyes sparkling. "I didn't know it could even sound like that- the tutor at the Opera never managed to teach me successfully!"

"Meg, nonsense." Erik said calmly, rustling his scores as he searched for the next page of the song, though he knew it off by heart already. "It is you who sang it, not me. You should be proud of yourself, not of me."

"Oh, now it is you who is being silly." Meg teased, her voice sounding a little hysterical. "I'd bet all my earnings on you being a brilliant singer. How could you not be? You teach, you compose...how could you have been Christine's Angel of Music if you could not sing? Duet with me, Erik! See if your excellence can make me sound even better!"

Erik frowned, feeling harassed. He didn't want to upset the girl, especially as she was so overjoyed, but he didn't want to duet with her. He was already feeling depressed just comparing this girl with Christine, but what would happen if they sang together? Erik knew he was being petty and it was likely to hurt Meg's feelings, but his head was throbbing and he sincerely wanted to call it a day and just go home.

"Meg, I haven't sung a duet with anyone in a very long time-" he began, struggling to be gentle, but Meg butted in before he could truly say no.

"Then let this be your chance to duet again!" she begged, her smile still bright. "I don't mind if you're a little out of practise; I'm no perfected singer myself!"

"Meg, you don't understand-"

"Oh but I do! You've no need to be embarrassed! Please, Erik? Just one song, and then we can stop for today. Please?"

He gave an irritated sigh, backed into a corner by her perfectly reasonable request. With a reluctant roll of his eyes, he nodded once and tried to ignore her triumphant grin. Her unstoppable happiness was a little daunting, and he found that his hands were trembling as he foraged amongst his scores for the only duet he had brought with him today. Just looking at the yellowed paper, which still smelt of damp from that infernal lake, made him feel incredibly sick.

He didn't know why he had brought this cursed song out of all of his compositions. This was a song that was tied to so many painful memories; it hurt just to briefly scan the words again. A song written for a 17th birthday, a song that had been meant to tell her just how he felt at last...

A song that now symbolised every mistake, every cruel act, every angered tear that had streaked down either of their pitiful faces. It sent the images cascading back; the rope around that fops neck, the hate in her eyes, the shouts and footsteps of the multitude of angered people, his own desperation...the sweetness of that kiss that had made him want to die.

He wordlessly passed Meg the score, his eyes hurting with the effort not to well up. He knew the notes of this damned piece off by heart; etched for eternity into his soul. Meg assessed his face carefully, her eyes wary as she took in the strained look of his face. But she did not pass him back the paper; she examined it with careful eyes. Those eyes widened, and she looked up in shock, but Erik had already begun to play. The notes clashed and seemed to shudder, his voice haunting and dark.

'_No-one else has ever understood me,  
No-one will ever see me as you do,  
Whilst the other fools scream and despise me,  
You always seem to see the truth.  
_

_And as I sit here, wallowing in darkness,  
You cause a sweet sensation in my heart,  
You always look past the ugly surface,  
You always see the light within the dark.'_

Meg stood there, gaping. She didn't know what else to do, what else to say. How could she have said anything that could possibly sound even half as stunning as what Erik had just sung? His voice was dark and dangerous, yet still soft and seductive. It pulled on every string in her heart and made her want to cry with its brilliance. His voice was...it was as if he really were an angel. She was pulled from her astounded thoughts by a distinct shift in the music; the notes were impossibly sweet and delicate now. She knew this signalled the entrance of her part, and so she took a deep breath and hoped she could do it justice.

'_Sing to me, softly and gently,  
Sing and dry all my tears,  
Sing to me here in this darkness,  
Sing and end all my fears.  
_

_Sing me your story, sweet angel,  
And I will sing you my own,  
Tell me the past with your music,  
And know you are not alone.'_

Meg realised, with a sickening dread as she sung the words, that Erik had not devised this female part to the duet himself. These words...they were real words, sung in response to a mournful song of sadness. She felt tears trickle down her face for reasons she could not understand as they both sang together.

'_I will always be here for you,  
I will always be near,  
When the darkness is shrouding you,  
You never need to fear.  
For I will always watch over you,  
Even if we are apart,  
You are entwined within my soul,  
You are always in my heart.'_

The end of the song came suddenly and abruptly, cutting off with a swift last chord before silence engulfed the room. Meg quickly dried her eyes and tried to take the dazed expression from her face, as Erik was staring at her. He looked confused by her reaction, and tormented. Meg could have kicked herself then for forcing him to sing with her.

Erik couldn't speak. He looked back down at the keys of the piano and wondered once again why he had allowed himself to do that. Hearing those words again had dragged up every repressed feeling of hate and sadness that he had fought to forget, and to hear Meg sing the part of Christine had nearly killed him.

"How...how very beautiful." Meg whispered, nearly falling into the nearest chair with a very un-ladylike thud. She sounded pleased now that the initial shock of the song had washed over her and Erik could almost predict what she was going to ask next. He steeled himself for the question he dreaded, yet flinching when the words came all the same. "Tell me, though...this song, who was your muse?"

Erik nearly bellowed at the girl for asking such a stupidly obvious thing. He got up in one fluid motion and slammed the piano cover over the keys with an ear-splitting crash, snatching his score from her surprised grasp and setting his face in a stern look of anger and disapproval.

"Enough for today." He said curtly, pointedly ignoring her question. "We don't want you to strain your vocal cords, do we?"

With that last patronising note he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, desperate to get out of Antoinette's home before he lost it and took his turmoil out on a piece of unsuspecting furniture. The small table in the hallway seemed to taunt him; Erik knew he was getting to a point of insanity already.

"Erik!" Meg whined, tailing him like a small child. She nearly fell flat on her face in her desperation to catch up with him before he left. "Don't be so irritable with me! I was only-"

"Only asking?" Erik demanded, still not slowing down as he made for the door, still refusing to turn around and look at her. "Well, Mademoiselle, I must say that I am just a little tired of your irrepressible optimism and bothersome questions today! _Leave me be._"

Meg, still adamant that she could calm him down, rolled her eyes and reached out to grab his arm. He flinched away from the sudden contact, pulling away sharply and whirling around to glare at her with the full wrath of his temper. Meg paled a little under the forceful glare of those wild eyes; she had never seen him like this before, and it threw a different light on this emotional, intense man. But then again, she expected him to have a temper; he was once the Opera Ghost, brandishing the feared Punjab lasso.

"What is it now?!" he yelled at her, eyes ablaze. "I am not a little bug to be prodded, poked and pulled apart, Meg. You asked me to sing with you today, and against my better judgement _and_ my own wishes I sang with you! I don't know why you would possibly imagine that I would then _explain_ my song to you!"

"I'm sorry." Meg reasoned with feeling, trying to ignore the way her heart squeezed horribly when he told her that he hadn't wanted to sing with her today. "It's just that I thought that as you are going to see Christine every night now, perhaps you could tutor her again and-"

"ENOUGH!" Erik bellowed with such force Meg nearly fell backwards. "Stop meddling with my life! Leave me alone and understand that whatever _stupid_ plan you devise, Christine will never love a _monster like me!_"

He stopped, suddenly aware that he had unleashed not just his anger but all his depression too into Meg's face with that uncalled for yell. He watched in horror as she looked up at him once, before her face crumpled and she ran from the room as fast as she could, tears already streaming from her eyes and sobs escaping from her mouth.

Cursing under his breath, Erik booted the doorframe and succeeded in causing great pain in his toes, before setting off home with a scowl on his face. He slammed the door so hard the window rattled menacingly, threatening to shatter and cause yet more trouble for him. Thank goodness Antoinette had been out.

He felt perfectly justified for protecting his privacy, that he was sure of. Everyone around him knew to leave his personal business be, and he had assumed that Meg would have the sense to do the same. Perhaps he had only encouraged her by singing that horrible song with her- he didn't know. It was the idea that he had reduced Meg, the happiest person and possibly the nicest too that he had ever met, to tears that made him feel like an idiot. It wasn't her fault that he had a cruel past, or that he had been a monster.

He tore through the streets without hesitation, receiving no funny looks or gawps from the other pedestrians due to the discreet skin-tone mask he had worn today, despite it being uncomfortable. He hated the sun that shone in his eyes, he hated the ridiculously happy Parisians, he hated their stupid laughter about nothing- he hated it all at that moment.

Nadir was out doing something or other, probably faffing around the market stalls rather than doing anything remotely useful, so he wasn't home to berate Erik for nearly wrenching the door from its hinges. He was trembling with the withheld desire to go on a rampage and to destroy every single piece of furniture littered around this dank, boring house. He knew it was pointless to be so angry, but he couldn't help it. He also simply could not withhold the action of throwing all his weight behind a colossal punch to the nearest wall.

The impact made a satisfying crunching noise, his black gloved fist pounding a hole into the wall which appeared to have been built extremely badly. He enjoyed the feeling of letting the frustration out so much he would have thrown another punch, but his hand ached from the impact and he was no longer boiling with rage.

He breathed deeply, not caring to contemplate how Nadir would react when he saw this new feature to his pathetic house, but Erik really didn't care. What could possibly be worse than feeling like such a spiteful person?

He removed his cloak and tossed it aside carelessly, ripping the uncomfortable mask roughly from his face and placing the far more tolerable white one in its place, for once enjoying the feel of it's cool surface against his flushed cheek. Practicalities out of the way, he strode purposefully into the parlour, taking a seat at the piano and staring down at the run of black and white. He fought to find an idea, closing his eyes with the effort, desperate for a flash of inspiration.

He wanted to make it up to Meg, to apologise for his appalling behaviour, but he didn't want the standard practise of saying a few emotional words. He wanted something more than that, something that would prove to her how highly he regarded her as a friend and ally in this harsh world. All he could think of, right then, was a song.

He had heard how she sung, heard the tonality and qualities of her voice, and he knew that he could easily compose a song that would show off those qualities and make her sound the most exceptional singer in the world. He fought back his thoughts of perhaps the one exception to that statement and instead eagerly began to draft ideas on a scrap of paper. Erik could tell that Meg had always secretly desired just a little turn in the spotlight, feeling a little sorry for how she must have always been a little jealous as her friend was thrust onto centre stage with no effort. Meg deserved a turn in the spotlight, now that Christine was...otherwise engaged.

Erik brushed the flair of anger regarding the only love of his pitiful existence aside, closing his eyes for a moment before beginning to compose a new aria; this time for Meg Giry.

_Meanwhile, in the Opera Populaire..._

"So, Monsieur...?"

"Monsieur Blanc."

"Ah, right. Monsieur 'Blanc'. Do explain why your client cannot come here himself to present this masterpiece. I am intrigued."

Nadir smiled a little as he saw the slight irritation of being kept from the truth sparkling in Jean Thiland's eyes from across the wooden desk and tried not to laugh at his own false name. It was somewhat satisfying to see such a man of power at a loss for once, though in this case his power was not a cause for envy; Nadir was glad he was powerful. This man, music publisher and Opera Populaire owner, was about to become very helpful indeed.

"My client does not like or indeed appreciate the spotlight, Monsieur Thiland." Nadir replied easily, his voice smooth and without hesitation. "He prefers it if the music is appreciated for its beauty rather than the composer, thus meaning that the he wishes to remain unknown, so that he does not affect the listeners opinion in any way. Rather commendable, I believe."

"Hm." Thiland looked merely curious now; the attitude Nadir described sparking an interest in his shrewd nature. "Well I simply cannot deny that this music you present to me is excellent. It is a work of pure genius, to be frank."

"I will pass this praise on to him, Monsieur." Nadir smiled coolly, sensing Thiland's interest.

"Yes, yes." The man looked flustered as he searched frantically for some paperwork amongst the mess upon his desk. "Now of course the contracts for these sort of deals take quite some time, Monsieur Blanc, even more so as your client refuses to meet me. You will understand that I will need more than one piece to actually publish?"

"Of course." Nadir practically purred.

"Then would you please talk to your client and get back to me when you are certain?"

"Yes, I will do just that."

"Well, in that case, I will speak with you shortly." Jean Thiland rose with Nadir, reaching across the desk to shake his hand, nearly toppling forward. The man smiled a little sheepishly, and Nadir found himself a little surprised with how pleasant he seemed. Then again, he was probably being overly nice to appease his newest customer. "Goodbye Monsieur, take care."

Nadir left the Opera Populaire with a smug smile on his face. He barely even felt the odd twinge in his chest he had experience when entering Opera; seeing as he had spent nearly every evening there trying to be Erik's damage control for his cruel tricks the building felt like a second home. He signalled for a carriage, which pulled up beside him within seconds of his hand being raised, and he told the driver his request still smiling.

Erik was bound to be a success! With Monsieur Thiland publishing his music anonymously, he could easily be world-renowned and his music could be adored by all! He didn't even need to show his face for this to work; Nadir was practically bouncing with excitement. He was sure that if Erik was given this sort of credit for his music, he would stop being so fixated on Christine and would be able to live at relative ease again!

The only problem was that Nadir knew that Erik was bound to refuse. Every time he had brought up the matter before, Erik had yelled him down and scorned the whole practise. Nadir appreciated that Erik was a private man, and that perhaps he would not like it if his songs about Christine were sold to the world, but surely he had composed a least a few songs that were not based around her? Then again, Nadir was not even sure of that, seeing as he was so obsessed by her.

But now he had seen a publisher, and if Erik told him it could not be done, Nadir could say otherwise. That had to be worth something. If only there was some way to persuade such a stubborn man like Erik to agree...

The carriage pulled up neatly outside the house and Nadir paid the driver in a daze, hopping out and hurrying up to the door feeling a little nervous. He didn't know how to bring up such a thing in a conversation with Erik without angering him. Erik had been fairly happy since Nadir had agreed to help him to aid Christine, and the last thing Nadir wanted was to burst that happiness with carelessness.

He dashed inside and the driver of the carriage looked up. He tilted back his hat a little so that he could clearly see the house, shifting the scarf that covered his mouth and nose with a sigh of relief. The little man hadn't recognised him.

Claude fished around in his coat pocket for a little notebook, writing down the number of the house neatly and efficiently. So this was the home of the little man he had seen leave the ballerinas house. He put the notebook away, taking one last glance at the door the man had gone in by, before ordering the horses onwards.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi all, here is an update for you all! Sorry it has been a little while...you wouldn't believe how busy I have been! This chapter will hopefully tie up the loose ends left by the cliffy of chapter ten and we see a bit more of the fop we all love to loathe :-) It is so tempting to throw in a random torture scene sometimes... *evil smile*.**

**Hugabouv, TMara, icanhearthedrums and Dkk5...thank you for your reviews! Reviews are greatly appreciated, as always, as are follows/faves and readers in general! Now I will be quiet and let you read chapter twelve...**

**Twelve- Yet You Doubt, Doubt Your Wife  
(de Chagny Townhouse, Comte's Private Study)**

Everything about the room spoke of power and dominance. From the ostentatious art work adorning the walls, the proud wooden furniture, the clearly expensive antiques, all the way down to the bold yet ominous patterns on the rug. The room was oppressive, much like its owner, and Raoul felt himself sinking down a little into the wooden chair under the superior tone of his father. The Comte was seated just across the large mahogany desk, which was meticulously organised, save for one crumpled piece of paper that sat right in the centre of the expanse of expensive wood. Just looking at it made his skin crawl and he fought to keep a composed face.

The Comte was not attempting to do such a thing at all. His eyes were glittering with both exaggerated fury and true delight at the words he had just fired straight at his milksop of a son and he leaned forward slightly, as if trying to get a better look at how Raoul was fighting not to hurl something at the wall.

"I...I'm sorry Father, but please could you repeat your...your _suspicions_. I don't think that I truly understand..." Raoul still could not quite make the words sink into his brain. If was as if he were rejecting them and their venomous message without even meaning too, scared of what might happen should the true horror or this mess finally dawn upon him.

The Comte sighed irritably, the delight faded to just pure anger again, and he sat back in his chair with a frown forming on his papery features. Then, in one sudden flick of his wrist, he reached out and thrust the stupid little letter at his son. For a moment, Raoul refused to take it; simply staring down at the crumpled note with hard eyes, but prompted with an irritated grunt, he took it sharply.

"Read it for yourself." The Comte demanded, leaving no room in his expression for sympathy or kindness. "I don't really see how you can dispute it, Raoul. It would be clear to an incomprehensible twit that that your wife is planning an affair, using your absence and my charity to aid her in her foul conniving nature! She is a vixen; a twisted she-devil with no morals!"

Raoul did not want to believe the words his father was spouting like a water feature, but he had no choice but to. His own read through of the hurtful little letter sent icy daggers plunging through his heart and he crumpled it even further within his huge fist. He imagined, in the building rage, crushing this 'Erik' fellow mentioned in the letter along with the paper and ink.

Could this really be true? Would Christine truly be so deceitful and cruel to him, especially after all they had been through...? Raoul did not mean to, but his mind instantly flooded with images of his own unfaithfulness; there had been many incidents and Raoul was ashamed to realise he could not even recall all of them. There had been that maid Angelique...unless she was called Elise- no, that was his mother's lady-in-waiting. The endless ladies of the night, the loud wench behind the bar at the nearest drinking house, the women in the gentlemen's club...and then that night, that horrible night, where Christine had burst in and seen him-

"_I'm sorry, Christine, I'm so unbelievably sorry. I don't know how I did such a thing- it will never happen again! I feel- I cannot even tell you how much of a monster I feel right this moment, Christine, and I deserve to be hated for this. But I- dear God Christine, I am so sorry, I love you so very much-"_

"_Is...is she the first?"_

"_Yes. And the last. I swear this, Christine, I was a fool tonight! Do not make me eternally suffer without your love for one mistake, I implore you!"_

He had lied several times that night, for the young lady Christine had seen him with had not been the first, or indeed the last in his unfaithfulness. He felt as if he might be physically sick with the memory of her large brown eyes, so innocent and confused as she took in the dreadful scene before her, filling with tears that she had so hastily wiped away for fear of looking weak-

The look of contempt in his father's shattered the self-piteous recollections that had flooded Raoul's mind and he brushed them aside before reading the letter once again. It made him feel a dark rage burning inside him that she sounded so pleased, so proud of herself to be planning this- Raoul gritted his teeth as he imagined his own wife and some stranger mocking him together in the dark. He scanned the words written in Christine's handwriting and was at once hit with a twist of déjà vu. Erik. _Erik._ Where did he know that name?

The name was undoubtedly familiar and had Raoul mentally listing every courtier and servant he could recollect, before moving onto a mental list of all the family friends. No-one called Erik. So where did he know the name Erik from? Raoul was surprised by how strong the déjà vu was and so it angered him even further that he could not remember who had that blasted name!

"Adultery," the Comte suddenly intoned, his voice low and controlling, "is a perfectly valid reason to annul marriage. Surely, Raoul, you would not wish to stay with such a venomous woman? You married far too young, my son, and you should not have to pay for that mistake with a lifetime of misery."

Raoul's head snapped up, his father's words ripping him out of his frantic brainstorm for the name of Erik. How could he possibly annul is marriage for his wife's own unfaithfulness when he had so often done the same? His father's patronising voice was like fuel for the fire of his anger.

"No, father." He replied calmly, getting up. He would deal with Christine his own way, and after that she would be faithful to him even if they were apart. She was like a horse that needed breaking in to his ways; after that, it would be perfect. "I am going to confront this...issue with my own methods."

"Raoul, she is making a mockery of you!" the Comte snapped, banging his fist onto the desk with each word he spat out, his eyes burning like fiery pits of hell. "You should not stand for this; as a de Chagny male you deserve better than this! And as for your own methods, you'll probably kill her eventually with your blows. Just get rid of her!"

"_She is my wife, father! I love her, and I am not about to discard her like a piece of rubbish!"_ Raoul bellowed, trembling with rage as he glared into his father's hateful eyes. He was sure that they mirrored his own.

"You have a strange way of showing it." The Comte replied simply, motioning with an airy hand for him to leave now. "Get out. I'll not be making up more excuses in response to those who ask why she has bruises all over her face, Raoul. Don't say that I didn't offer you my help."

Raoul nodded curtly and strode out of the claustrophobic room, barging past a maid in the corridor with such force that she dropped the tea tray she carried with a colossal crash. Boiling water and china exploded all over the floor and the poor girl, who cried out in pain and shock, but Raoul's only response was to call over his shoulder;

"Clean that up, you clumsy wretch!"

He slammed the doors with such force some might have thought the gates of hell were opening and he strode through the courtyard and to the stables with such a look of contempt and anger on his face that any servants leapt out of his way without a word. When he was in a temper, Raoul de Chagny could not be reasoned with, and he was often cruel and a bully as a result.

As he ripped a saddle from the wall of the stables and tightly fastened it onto his favourite mount, he muttered awful curses under his breath. He loathed his father for being such a serpent, he felt like he could kill his wife right then for trying to mock him but the main emotion coursing through his body was the sadistic desire that this Erik person, whoever he was, could suddenly appear so that Raoul could beat him bloody and leave him for dead in the gutter. The thought of such a thing made him spur the horse onwards with renewed energy, planning to gallop flat out all the way to a merchant outside the city simply to feel the sting of the wind against his face. He valiantly hoped that it would ease the rage burning furiously inside him.

He had reached the courtyard, bouncing a little in the saddle as he anticipated the sweet release of the ride to come, but his attention was momentarily diverted by the entrance of another horse. It rode right into the clearly residential stable yard, the rider entirely relaxed, but Raoul's initial response to demand an explanation for the man's presence was cut of short by the beauty of the horse. It was a stunning liver chestnut, with a shining coat and impressively athletic muscles. Raoul's own mount paled in comparison, and he couldn't help but feel a little envious.

"Beautiful mount." He called out to the stranger, hostility forgotten as they passed one another. "There is only one stall made up with straw, but you can use it as I won't be back for a while. The stable lads take forever to prepare a stall."

"I am much obliged, Vicomte." The man nodded his thanks, the words spoken in a very level, dull voice. He sounded astoundingly normal, with no real tone or accent to his voice at all. Raoul nearly commented on the fact in his shock.

"You're perfectly welcome." He replied with a distant nod, already spurring his horse onwards and onto the busy Parisian streets. He had never seen that man before; he would have remembered a horse like that. Raoul supposed it must have been an associate of his father, as who else would act so comfortably in the property of another? Raoul suddenly was filled with the horrifying thought that he could have been 'Erik', but he brushed the paranoia away. It was not worth it, not now.

In the courtyard, Claude Le Montier dismounted his horse and passed the docile creature to a stable lad who had materialised out of nowhere; in fact, he seemed to have appeared as soon as Raoul left. He tossed the boy a coin absent-mindedly, his thoughts already centred on the issue in hand; facing the Comte, again.

He wished, as he walked the lonely corridor to the Comte's study after an obliging servant had let him in the kitchen garden door, that Pierre would come along to these horribly intense meetings. He felt like a criminal in the presence of the Comte, which was a horrible reality that he did not deny for one second. The part that upset the calm aura of his mind was that the Comte seemed to herald himself as a good man; Claude was sickened by how far this was from the brutal truth of the situation.

At least he had information to report this time; that would hopefully keep the conversation professional and brief. Claude leaned against the wall beside the door to the study, closing his eyes as he attempted to collate his thoughts in the hope that he would be able to form a coherent sentence when the need came. At present, it seemed an unlikely hope.

He had been contacted by the Comte earlier regarding this strange affair planned by Christine and had also been told that the man she was being unfaithful with was called Erik. The Comte had been suspicious of the Vicomtesses ballerina friend, saying that the only connection she would have had recently with the 'lower-class lose moral scum' was through her stay with them. So Claude had spent time between jobs just sitting and waiting outside the perfectly normal looking house, desperate for one shred of information to be bestowed upon him like a gift from the Gods...and then it had happened.

He recalled how in that fortuitous moment the door to the said house had opened cautiously, before two men had snuck out and strode off down an alleyway. Claude had seen them only once, in that spilt second, but his powerful memory had served him well. It had been entirely by chance that his latest carriage passenger had been one of the two men.

Claude massaged his temples with his slightly clammy fingertips, a nervous sweat having beaded on his puckered forehead. Just the atmosphere of this house was enough to make him jittery, let alone the anticipation of the sure to be uncomfortable meeting. His racing heart and his whirling brain would not shake the questions off; which man had been Erik? Neither had been what Claude would deem desirable as such, with the foreign man quite clearly old, and the other... Claude sighed. The other had looked perfectly normal and maybe even attractive to the female kind at first; tall, mysterious with an elegant gait and looking presentable. But when Claude had seen his face, one half had looked odd. He still could not work out why.

He had just begun to contemplate why exactly those two men would have been leaving the ballerinas house- for they could not both her lovers- when the nasal voice of a manservant broke through his disjointed thoughts and beckoned him inside the study. He shuffled into the ornate room and bowed awkwardly, aware that the manservant was watching him, but then he left and it was just Claude and the Comte. The forbidding aura of the room and its owner would never cease to make him feel uneasy.

"Le Montier!" the Comte actually smiled, his face stretching into the unusual expression in such a way that left Claude both fascinated and horrified. "Ah, you are just the man I wanted to see! Any luck with the hunt for this Erik man?"

Claude hesitated before nodding, biting back the reply that danced on the edge of his tongue; the reply that would surely have horrifying consequences for him, should he ever dare to voice it.

"Well then, tell me for Lord's sakes!" the Comte snapped, his enthusiasm and patience fast fading with his evil desperation. Claude felt ill just thinking about the warped delight of his employer. Did he lie awake at night planning these acts of horror? Did he struggle to find the most tortuous way to get what he wanted? "I'm interested in everything and anything, Le Montier; looks, character, accent, face, companions, actions...anything at all."

"I-I found that the address of the letter you found, Monsieur, was in fact the address of the ballerina; the Vicomtesses friend?" he began slowly, seeing the obvious satisfaction flood the Comte's face. He settled back in his chair, smugly, and motioned with an almost sweet smile that Claude should continue. He did so, in a grave voice. "On watching the house, to see who went in and out, I eventually witnessed the departure of two men. One was a little foreign man, far older than the Vicomtess, and the other was a tall man all in black; he had an odd face."

"Hm." The Comte mused in a pleasant voice, as if deciding which wine to serve at a garden party. "I suppose that, should either of these men be the Erik we seek, it would be the tall one. Did you engage in conversation at all, Le Montier?"

"I did not, Monsieur, but by pure chance the foreign man became a passenger in my carriage. I took him from the Opera Populaire to his home, for which I have the address." He licked his lips, watching as the Comte leaned forward slightly, the only give away that he was in fact interested. "I would bet all my belongings, Monsieur, on the tall man being Erik and the ballerina being the method of communication between him and the Vicomtess."

The Comte sat back again in his chair, silent, and Claude assessed his face carefully. The man had an evil look of calculation upon his delicate features, as if his warped mind were processing all this new information in order to come to a ghastly conclusion. After a minute of silence and a blank face, the Comte frowned and nodded.

"So. We assume, if your observations are all true, that we know Erik to be the tall man." He said in an unhappy tone, making Claude deflate. He had hoped that the Comte would at least be pleased with what he had thought had been a successful task, but he supposed that such an evil rooted man would only be truly happy at bloodshed. "But who is this other man? I know that he is probably just an elderly idiot, but we cannot leave a stone unturned in a matter as delicate as this, Le Montier."

"I could find out about the other man?" Claude offered, sensing the opportunity with such an eager to please attitude that he sickened himself a little. It had obviously been the right thing to do, as the Comte smiled again as he sloshed a little brandy into two crystal glasses, keeping one and passing the other to Claude almost as if it were a reward.

He sipped it with a feeling of resignation, feeling the fiery liquid scorch his throat and hoping it would numb the guilt.

"Yes, yes, do that." The Comte nodded, his smooth voice soft and yet distinctly pleased with the situation. "And do try to find out more in regards to the ballerina ninny and the Vicomtesses lover. We'll need to know all we can about this Erik fellow and then we can cut him off from the sly little demon. With him lurking around it will make killing the wretch so much more complicated- it would risk being caught, Le Montier, and we don't want that."

Claude nearly choked on the mouthful of brandy, hating the Comte and his use of the word 'we'. It was only he who was at risk of being caught and incarcerated, not the wealthy Comte with all the local magistrates under his thumb, and no doubt many servants who could easily be bribed. No, Claude knew that the Comte was merely saying 'we' to make him feel as if they were a team, not master and obedient dog.

"My son is already up in arms regarding the whole situation, though the foolish boy would never admit it to me. He likes to pretend that he and his stupid wife are still locked in some fairytale romance, yet the bruises on her face speak far more than his weak lies. If I trusted him enough, I would include him in this plan, but I fear he would simply whisk her away somewhere...but never mind. He leaves soon, for the South, and little Christine will be carrying on without a care as she will suspect no-one to check up on her." The Comte went on with an evil look of pleasure that sent shivers involuntarily down Claude's spine. His hands were trembling so much that he had to put the glad down before it fell from his weak grip and smashed to the floor. "I just can't believe how aptly this has all gone for us!"

"Pardon, Monsieur?" Claude asked, lost in his own thoughts, and he was met with an irritable sigh.

"Please, try to focus Le Montier." He chided, his voice a mutter as he swirled the amber liquid around his glass in a whirlpool of alcohol. ""I mean that this whole operation- your surveillance and the plan we have devised- has suddenly taken a far easier route simply because my ninny of a daughter-in-law tried to organise an affair and was too stupid to even do that right! The pure chance of it- it's laughable!"

I'm glad you think this is funny, Claude thought bitterly to himself, for I do not. He could not blame the innocent Vicomtess for being unfaithful to such a beast of a husband, and he did not doubt that this was a cry of desperation more than what the Comte suggested, which was that she was a sly and manipulative witch. The whole of Paris was rooting for the poor woman, knowing that she was close to being unloved and was a complete outsider in her apparently deranged family of psychotic power-crazed loons. Christine de Chagny was pure gold next to the corruption and deceit of the tainted de Chagny name, and she would never be able to do anything wrong in the eyes of the average working Parisian.

As Claude watched the Comte chuckle to himself and pour yet more alcohol into his glass, he wished with all his being that he would somehow be able to get the courage to write to the address he had uncovered, to warn this Erik man and then help to make it look as if the Vicomtess had run away and therefore escaped assassination. But no kill meant no money, no money meant no food and Claude had a large family dependant on his income. It was a horrifying mess he found himself in, and he was sure that this was the hardest thing he had ever had to do in his life.

"So, Le Montier, you have a plan, I take it?" The Comte's voice harshly pulled Claude form his thoughts, leaving him confused and disorientated.

"Umm...pardon, Monsieur le Comte? A plan for what?" he asked, feeling stupid as the Comte sighed and threw his hands up in a dramatic gesture.

"A plan, Le Montier, a plan for our quest for knowledge! The search for the truth!" the Comte all but yelled, sounding exasperated and yet a little smug as he dressed up the evil of the plan to make it sound like some daring rescue mission with knights on horseback and a damsel in distress. "We need to discover all we can about this elusive Erik the foreign man and any other variables and discover if they pose a threat to our goal. If the ballerina causes any problems, which I doubt she will as she is most likely illiterate and thick, simply dispose of her. No-one will miss a nobody, so you needn't worry."

Claude had to hold back the cry out outrage that very nearly exploded form his pursed mouth. His nails dug into the arms of the chair and his head felt light and the room was spinning slowly. Another potential victim- this time even more innocent that the Vicomtess?! What had he gotten himself into?! The horror on his face must have given his outrage away, as the Comte instantly became icy and threatening.

"Now, Le Montier, I trust that with the extortionate sum I propose to pay you, there cannot possibly be anything to look so appalled about?" he asked in a soft, evil voice that made every hair on Claude's arms stand up on end with a chill, though the room was sunny and plenty warm enough.

"There are- there are no problems, Monsieur de Chagny. No problems." He sighed, feeling squished under the dominance of the tyrannical man sat opposite him now, sealing his fate for good. Again.

_Meanwhile, on the streets on Paris..._

Christine was enjoying her day. It wasn't often that she could feel so happy, but today the sun was shining as brightly as the lights of the Opera and she was free to simply wander the streets with no-one to order her around. In felt gorgeous to be lost in the crowds again, submerged in the hustle and bustle of the streets with no-one pointing her out or gawping. She was dressed in an old gown, one from her days at the Opera, and felt perfectly content to have her hair loose and no makeup on her face. No-one stopped her, stared at her, sneered at her; pure bliss.

She had set out with the intent to simply walk about with nothing to do and no-one to see, when she had suddenly been overcome with the desire to visit Meg again. The walk meant she could enjoy the sunshine, and hopefully Meg would be available to spend an afternoon together just like those blissful days of the past. They had been inseparable in those days, more like sisters than friends, and in the first days alone at the de Chagny house it had been the lack of her best friend that had felt the strangest.

Christine also had a sneaky wish that Erik might be there, sipping tea at the large oak table, playing dark melodies on the beautiful piano...she didn't dare even admit to herself that she was hoping to see him again, and yet the anticipation was building to the point that her hands shook as she knocked on the Giry's peeling front door.

Meg answered almost immediately but instead of smiling, as Christine had come to expect with the optimistic Meg, her face suddenly creased in panic. She made no sound, but simply grabbed Christine none too lightly by the elbow and pulled her inside, stealing one last glance around outside before slamming the door shut with an almighty crash. Christine had to catch her breath, startled, and she saw with a pang of confusion that Meg's eyes were red and swollen, as if she had been crying.

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but Meg cut her off with a rant, running her fingers frantically through her long blonde hair as she stressed and paced to and fro in the small hallway.

"You can't do that again! What if someone were to see you come here- oh God, they probably already did...oh, that would ruin everything! You mustn't come here again; we can't let anyone see where you go- but they probably did see you! Oh, oh, oh!"

Christine tried not to show how confused she was. She saw that Meg was visibly upset, worried even, but she still had absolutely no idea as to why-!

"I- I don't understand, Meg." She said softly, her voice openly bewildered, and the simple statement made Meg stop raving with blinding finality. The blonde girl looked straight at her, her face exploding with shock, and she bit her lip as her eyes gave away her unease. Her eyes began to flit all around the room, refusing to meet Christine's gaze, and her leg began to tremble nervously. Christine took in Meg's nervous disposition, and her own gaze hardened fractionally. Anger played in her heart, but she refused to lose control.

"Meg." She addressed her friend coolly and calmly, but the panic was still filling the girl's eyes. "Has this sudden...worry about me being seen have anything to do with that strange letter Erik sent to me? Only he told me that something had occurred, something that involved me, and I want to know. Now."

"I don't- it's nothing, Christine. Don't fuss- you know what Erik's like." She mumbled, playing with another golden strand.

"But that is my point exactly; I don't know Erik. I haven't seen him in three whole years, the last time we met having been an unpleasant and hurtful experience. From this I can only gather that whatever has occurred must be bad for him to care so much." Christine said firmly, sure of her opinion and adamant that the lies would stop now. She even sounded angrier. "Come on, Meg, this is about me. Surely I deserve to know? Please."

Megs face was troubled, but it was clear that she was deliberating. Christine waited, barely daring to breathe, but then Meg finally gave a defeated sigh and gestured for Christine to follow her to the kitchen, looking troubled and beaten. Christine felt a little swoop of triumph in the pit of her stomach, and she gladly sat down at the huge table, opposite Meg.

"Spare me no details- everything is important." Christine said, not angry anymore. She hated being angry, as she hated people who bullied their way through life, so she fought to try and smile at her best friend. Meg still looked sheepish and uneasy with the situation, but she could hardly deny Christine the truth.

"He'll be so angry that I've told you." Meg sighed, even sounding glum. It made Christine feel very guilty, but not guilty enough to go without hearing the truth. "But then he already is."

"Who will be angry?" Christine asked, her voice a little sharp.

"Erik." Meg rolled her eyes, but Christine could see true hurt beneath the nonchalance. "But never mind. I suppose you do deserve to know- in fact, I don't really understand what his aversion to telling you even was, but he is a private man."

"Why is he angry with you already, though?" Christine asked gently, and Meg snorted as if it were nothing.

"Never mind that; it's trivial to say the least." She managed a small smile. "But the occurrence that involves you is not trivial. It was...it was the day of the de Chagny masquerade ball. I was on my way to visit Erik and Nadir- you remember the Persian? Anyway, I was on my way to their home and in broad daylight a man pulled me to one side and started asking questions- questions about you. You had quite literally left for home perhaps an hour beforehand, but I told him I didn't know where you were."

"Well I...I don't quite see what the problem is. The man was probably a manservant of Raoul's, trying to find out where I was. Tell me what he looked like, and I can ask someone about him." She replied simply, a little confused, but Meg leapt up with a horrified gasp.

"No, Christine, you must not do that! You can't!" Meg exclaimed, gripping her friends hand tightly. "Christine, consider this; how would a stranger or a servant know to ask _me_ about you? Only Raoul and perhaps a few others know that we were friends, and Raoul would not have sent a servant out specifically to find me, would he?"

"Then...?"

"Then this means, or so Erik and Nadir think, that the man asking questions has been employed by someone to do so. Employed to follow you, to watch you, to report back to the employer regarding your every move. But the problem Erik has is that- that what if there was more to it than just spying?" Meg said gravely as Christine felt her heart splutter and falter, smashing against her heaving ribcage mercilessly.

Could it be true? Could someone really have paid a stranger to watch her and to spy on her, perhaps to do more than she did not even know about yet? The worrying thing was that the stranger seemed to know about her past and her friends- and he could easily know more.

"Have you any idea as to who the employer could be?" she asked frantically, begging. Meg shook her head, sadly.

"We...we cannot be sure." She replied, hesitant. She didn't want to hurt her fragile friend with the prediction that Erik, Nadir and herself had all considered, but if she wanted to know the truth... "Christine, you cannot mention this to anyone. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. You mustn't tell Raoul either because...Christine, the employer obviously knows you very well. There is nothing to say that it could not be someone you trust, such as your husband."

"Oh dear God." Christine burst into tears, her voice cracking as she tried to hold them back. She gripped onto the table so tightly that her knuckles were white and so stretched that they looked as if they might explode. "I just...I cannot understand any of this! Why now, what has changed? Dear God! Thank you, Meg, thank you so much for telling me-!"

Meg reached out and hugged her best friend, feeling the tears seep into her dress as she clung onto Christine as they had done when they were seven and scared of the dark. Her smell- rose water- and the weight of her glossy chocolate curls were so familiar to Meg they felt like her own. Erik would be angry that she had been told, but Meg no longer cared. Christine deserved to know, just as any of them would if it were them.

"But you mustn't worry, Christine." Meg soothed, her voice soft and gentle. "Erik will be watching over you each night and Nadir is searching for the stranger as we speak. My mother and I will also keep watch and I promise to inform you whenever we find anything."

Christine hiccupped and drew back, wiping her streaming eyes delicately. Meg took her hand in a very sisterly gesture.

"And you know Erik, even though you say you don't." Meg said, teasing her subtly. "He would never let anything happen to you- your voice is too good to lose!"

Christine managed a shaky laugh, wiping away the last of her tears and sniffling a little. Meg passed her another lace handkerchief, feeling proud that she had helped her dearest friend through what must have been a shocking discovery.

It was, no doubt, shocking still.

"Thank you, Meg." Christine whispered.

"There is no need to thank me." She replied softly, trying to ignore the slight stab of something she did not understand when she recalled how Erik had been so desperate to help Christine, or the way her eyes had lit up when she had heard that Erik would be watching over her.

It was not right to feel such a way and Meg knew it with all her aching heart.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi again! Two updates in one day! :-) It's nice to actually have the time to update now and I'm hoping to keep up with my 'at least two updates a week' thing. I enjoyed writing this chapter; sometimes a bit of romance is needed, I think. **

**Well, on to the chapter! Reviews are always loved and I hope, if you are reading this, that you are enjoying this Phanfic :-)**

**Thirteen- Stay By My Side, Guide Me  
(A street in Paris)**

A cool breeze sang its way through the fast emptying roads of Paris, lifting the dust and discarded rubbish from the cobbles before unceremoniously dumping it all back down on the dirty ground. The wind was gentle, not the usual bitter sting, but an icy kiss from nature.

Erik made his way through the depleting crowds with his flesh coloured mask on, trying to ignore the loud chatter of the Parisians he loathed for being so happy all the time. He felt edgy, as if the slightest trivial thing would spark a colossal explosion, and so he fought to ignore their pointless chatter and strode onwards.

As he made it past the main routes home for many of the loud Parisians, Erik slowed down and took the time to savour the luxury of walking at ease through the city, enjoying the feeling of the wind against his face. He found surprising beauty as he looked up and saw the dramatic sunset over the tops of both plain and ornate buildings, seeing shapes and patterns in their silhouettes. Paris could be truly stunning, but it took the night to bring this hidden beauty out from the dirt. To Erik, this made Paris even more appealing.

In the day he loathed it, finding it far too busy and detesting the repulsive markets, loud stall owners and chattering people who seemed to exaggerate their happiness just to annoy him. It was the sort of thing Nadir adored; overly cheery people with braying laughs, always happy to stop you for a good ten minutes to talk about nothing, whilst at the same time trying to sell you a million and one different items that were gaudy and pointless.

But at sunset the sky became streaked with deep colours; from fiery oranges all the way down to deep mysterious indigo, the harsh light of the day finally giving in to the softer yet far more powerful night. As the moon bathed pearly light upon the cobbles, making them resemble glittering jewels, the people would finally melt away and give the city an air of peace. Whilst they all flocked to the warm lights of the Opera or the taverns, the people like Erik would be free to wander the streets and savour the peace and delight of another flawless night.

Erik found himself smiling a little as he brushed his lonely thoughts away, continuing along the quiet backstreets which were all empty save for himself. He ached to remove the uncomfortable mask that was currently scraping at his face like sandpaper, just to feel the cool wind against it, but he did not dare. The thought of what might happen should he do such a thing was too horrific to bear.

Earlier, Nadir had come barrelling into the house in such a state that he had not even noticed the brand new hole in the wall. In fact, he had almost made another hole by tripping in his excited haste and falling against it, causing it to groan in protest. He had babbled on and on about a music publisher, and the ludicrous idea that Erik could in fact publish his music anonymously, but he had soon stopped spouting when Erik had threatened to lasso his favourite Persian ornament.

In truth, though Erik had told Nadir that he despised such a stupid idea, he was fascinated by the thought of it. He had always dreamt that his music might make an impact on the world somehow, preferably not through his own anger, and if he could really do such a thing without having to show his face...

Yet again, Erik hurriedly brushed the thoughts away. He could not afford to be so preoccupied with his own worthless problems when there was a far larger one at hand; the potential risk of Christine coming to harm. The thought alone made his fists clench and his jaw tense, but he tried to stop himself from becoming too het up. He needed focus, and focus did not come with a blinding rage.

He swiftly took a short cut through a dingy back alley, and came out just behind the stables of the de Chagny townhouse. The sound of dogs patrolling the stable yard and the painfully high fencing did not deter him in the slightest, and he nimbly made his way up and over, landing gracefully on the stable roof. From there, he surveyed the darkness with his already adjusted eyes, before leaping deftly from the roof and hurrying silently through the dark to the gardens, closing the gates with only the slightest of creaks. The dogs and the high fences were no longer problems; now it was a matter of finding Christine.

He made his way to the glittering opalescent fountain, sitting calmly on the edge and trailing a hand in the cool water, looking up at the array of windows spread across the back of the house. His eyes honed in on every detail, watching for movement and listening carefully for the smallest of sounds in the night. Meg had said that Christine had a balcony, so that narrowed it down to one of three windows.

One was on the lower floors, clearly leading into a dining room or drawing room by the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses leaking from the open doors. Erik waited to see who came to the windows or doors of the other two, and he lost track of the time spent watching and waiting. Finally, he watched in relief as the figure of the Comte appeared behind one set of the doors and locked them, leaving only the balcony and consequently the room to the right side of the house left. It had to be Christine's.

Erik shifted a little on the cold hard edge of the fountain, aware that it would be a long wait. He needed to see all the lights go out in order to ensure that it was at last safe to go up and sit on her balcony like an overly faithful guard dog. The night sky above him subtly changed from fiery sunset to deep velvet, black and adorned with thousands of diamond like stars, glinting and winking at him as he looked up. Who could deny the beauty of the night when faced with such a vast expanse of brilliance?

Time dragged on slowly, Erik finding himself so bored he nearly fell head first into the fountain as sleep fought to drag down his heavy lids. Instead of succumbing to the temptation to sleep, he splashed his face with icy droplets from the fountain and forced himself to look up and stare at each and every star.

As he sat there, his neck going stiff with the effort, he found himself thrown back into turbulent memories; of himself at perhaps four years old, finding pictures in the stars. One of the gypsy children had come at sat beside his cage one clear summer night, and together they had looked up at the stars and giggled as they found all sorts of images amongst their glittering splendour. Both he and the gypsy boy were young and yet their mental age was probably that of a much older child. The boy had said to Erik, as the dawn had come and the sky was streaked with pink and yellow, 'I'm sorry that they beat you.' And Erik remembered how he had not replied, just wishing that he could somehow get free of his tormentors and escape to a place that would allow him to watch the stars with other children as often as he pleased.

Gradually, as the hours continued to crawl past, the lights in the windows began to go out. Each time a light was extinguished, Erik would feel a spark of relief in his chest. When only two remained, he stood up and eased his stiff limbs, massaging his neck and taking a few painful steps.

Finally the lights were all out, aside from a faint glowing from within Christine's room, and so Erik smiled in the darkness and walked towards the wall of the house. He was confident in the gloom, and easily found a few uneven bricks that gave him the footing he needed before climbing the wall and swinging himself up onto the balcony with practised ease. The balcony itself was large and bathed in moonlight, so when Erik peered in through the French doors he could easily see the interior of Christine's bedroom. His eyes took in the luxurious furniture, the clearly expensive decoration- and then his eyes met Christine's.

It took Erik a few precious seconds to recover from the shock that Christine was sat up waiting for him, by which time she had hopped out of bed and hurried across to the French doors, unlocking them silently and smiling shyly at him, her cheeks faintly pink. She was in a long white nightgown that was most likely far more expensive than the average Parisian's entire wardrobe, but Erik could not feel his usual disgust at the upper-classes and their mindless spending, as she looked stunning.

"I'm so glad you're here." She said softly, her voice like silk, but Erik noticed that her eyes were red from crying. That made his fists clench again. "Please, come in."

She turned to head inside, but Erik could not restrain himself. He reached out and touched her tear streaked cheek, feeling his insides twist as she closed her eyes and sighed a little at his touch, before she suddenly seemed to regain control and her eyes shot open again. She was smiling, though, so Erik could not stop the words.

"You've been crying." He said softly, the pleasure of her smile conflicting with the anger he felt at seeing her cry. The unspoken question as to why was clear in every syllable and in his pained expression. She frowned a little.

"I'll come to that in a moment." She replied in a calm voice, not at all how Erik expected her to speak seeing as she had just been crying. She motioned for him to come inside, and she then closed the French doors again with one swift movement, walking back towards her large bed. For some reason, Erik could not stop staring at it, though it made his cheeks flush a painful red. "Please sit down, that chair is quite comfortable. Would you mind if I sat in my bed?"

"Not at all." He replied quietly, now feeling awkward as she made reference to the item of furniture he kept staring at. He cursed himself for being such an idiot, focusing on the task of moving the chair to her bedside and sitting in it without a sound. Christine got under her covers and wrapped another spare blanket around her shoulders, resting back a little against the headboard.

They suddenly looked at one another, staring with a burning intensity into one another's eyes until Christine flushed a bright pink and turned away, embarrassed. The pink high on her cheeks made her look energised and healthy, and Erik suddenly remembered how she had been flushed pink and exhausted after her first performance on the Opera stage.

_Tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead._

Why did you have to fall for that fop?, Erik thought sadly as he played with the material adorning the arm of the chair he sat in, it could have all been so different. But then would it have been? Erik found himself remembering how he had felt when she had kissed him; as if he would shrivel up and die from the joy. He had never seen himself as worthy of being with her, always striving to meet her perfection, and now he wondered if he would have ever felt worthy of her.

"So..." He cleared his throat nervously, anxious to end the thoughts circling in his mind. "You were going to tell me why you have been crying?"

Christine looked back into his eyes as soon as the hesitant words were out, shifting awkwardly and fidgeting. She wrapped a strand of glossy hair around her finger and began to twirl it anxiously, her face troubled and even a little wary. Erik frowned.

"I-I just...promise me now that you will not get angry and fly into a rage." She said softly, though the worry made the words a little firmer than usual. Erik felt immediately irritated by her obvious fear at telling him. He could bet almost all his possessions on her story revolving around her greasy, slime ball fop of a husband. Oh, how he wanted Raoul de Chagny to be in the room right now. The things he felt like doing to that vile Vicomte were unpleasant to think about, and yet he would sincerely relish in the act of carrying them out.

"Yes. I promise, then." He replied quietly, hoping that the anger was not audible even now. He tensed as she prepared herself to tell him the story, ready now for the anger rush that was bound to flood his veins and make him yell.

"Thank you." she breathed out in relief, visibly calmer. She settled herself back against the pillows comfortably, pleased. "Only today I called in on the Giry's-"

Erik was not prepared for that. He gasped aloud and his nails dug into the arms of the chair, the pressure hurting him, and he felt his mouth drop open. She couldn't have gone there- no! That would easily ruin all they had planned so far!

"And when Meg opened the door she did exactly what you have just done." Christine fought back a giggle, her eyes sparkling in almost childlike delight. Erik could forget the haggard look she had now when he saw her eyes shimmer like the very stars he had watched earlier; he was lost in them entirely. He had never met another person with eyes as beautiful as hers. "So I, of course, demanded to know why she was so horrified to see me again. At first she refused to tell me, swearing that I didn't need to know, but eventually she told me."

Erik gritted his teeth. He didn't dare fly off the handle and into the rage he could feel brewing at this unpleasant news, but he could not stop himself from hissing like a disgruntled cat. Meg had just gone ahead and completely shredded his plans and hopes to keep Christine in relative darkness, to preserve her sanity and to stop her from worrying.

"Don't be like that, Erik." Christine sighed, and Erik immediately tried to shake off the anger hearing the irritation in her tone. "It's not fair that I was kept in the dark for so long- do you honestly believe that I shouldn't know? In fact, don't answer that. Now I know about the potential threat from my husband I also know about how hard you are working to keep me safe, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you."

Erik merely nodded, not sure how else to respond. It was true that he had wanted to keep Christine oblivious, but perhaps she and Meg were right. It was, after all, Christine at risk. He decided to not argue the matter.

"I received your letter and I acted upon your request straight away. Raoul will still travel to the South as scheduled, and I will remain in Paris staying with his parents in this house." Christine could not stop her face from slipping into an expression of disgust as she said this, looking and sounding unimpressed by this part of the plan. "I will miss my husband and I will miss the South, for I love that part of the country greatly, but I will stay if you think it best. And of course I will be bored to tears here, as every single member of the Paris gentry seems to despise me."

Erik had to hide the smirk that filled his face when she said those words, as she sounded so much like a spoilt child rather than the dignified young woman he had grown to adore. She glared at him, making him stop the spluttering laughter immediately, feeling guilty as he knew she would still be feeling annoyed and lied too regarding this whole issue.

"And I sincerely wish that you wouldn't bully Meg, Erik." She continued, making Erik jump and turn the full power of his accusing stare onto her.

"What?" he snapped, sounding grouchy and defensive. "Did you just say that I bully Meg Giry? For goodness sakes, Christine, if she has told you that I think she is bending the truth."

"No, I rather doubt that somehow. She didn't tell me that, I found out myself. She had been crying, you see, and she mentioned that you were angry with her. I don't know why you found the need to be so mean that she cried, but I'm sure you will tell me the reason right now." She replied sternly, her usually warm brown eyes icy cold. Erik recoiled a little; where had this confidence bloomed from?

"I will not be telling you anything of the sort, as there is nothing to tell." He snapped back.

Silence filled the room completely, crackling like lightening with the tension. Christine turned away from him and began to search through the possessions on her bedside table, whilst Erik stared down at his hands with a fierce scowl on his features. The mask was really starting to irritate his sensitive skin now, and he ached to remove it. But even the painful fire of his skin being rubbed raw was not enough to make him take off the mask and see Christine scream in petrified horror again.

Suddenly, Christine sighed irritably and fell back against her pillows with a scowl. Erik looked up, startled.

"What?" he demanded, confused and exasperated with her temper. She looked up at him, the intense annoyance clouding her eyes and making her seem angrier than Erik suspected she actually was.

"I was just sorting through my jewellery box and I have found the letter I had meant to send to Meg, to give to you." she muttered, showing him the small letter and flushing in embarrassment at her own mistake. "It would seem I am incapable of even doing the simplest of tasks correctly."

Erik could sense that her anger was building, and that soon she would be hysterical. The shock of today's discoveries and now the embarrassment at supposedly being stupid had made her upset, so he decided to intervene. He often wished that someone would do the same for him.

"Well, I am here now. Why don't I read it?" he suggested softly. She looked up at him with wide, appalled eyes, clutching onto the letter with renewed force.

"No!" she protested, stunned. "At least, not here!"

"Why not?" he teased reaching for the letter, which she quickly whipped out of his reach, still looking completely astounded by him and his actions. "It is addressed to me, is it not?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"So I may read it when I choose." He finished in a smug voice, snatching the letter and waving it before her horrified face with a flourish. He ignored her shriek of protest, which she quickly stopped for fear of being heard by whoever was in the room next door, and continued to methodically rip open the thin envelope. He flipped open the letter, eyes scanning the neat words in her unmistakeable handwriting, and soon his teasing superiority faded out into pure, undiluted shock. It would have been comical to see the scarily rapid transformation from smug to astounded, but Christine was too busy squirming with embarrassment to really notice.

She watched him, with nervous eyes, as he read and then re-read the letter, cringing away and hiding her bright red face in her cool hands. She didn't want him to read the letter now, not when she had just been so furious with him. That letter was one of admiration and forgiveness; not a letter that she wanted to be associated with when she had just been sulking.

She plucked up the courage from nowhere to take her face from her hands and watch him, until he stopped scanning the lines of words over and over to look at her. His eyes were stunned and humbled and just so full of- she hastily looked away, not comfortable with the intensity of his stare. Those golden eyes that had once caused her heart to beat faster with fear were now capable of turning her and every coherent thought inside her head to a trembling wreck.

She heard him move, though she was not sure how as Erik always moved with swift silence, and she could feel that he was close by. She stole a quick sideways glance, refusing to turn around as if she were a stubborn child, and saw that he was now knelt at her bedside, his face fairly close to her own. Though she fought to keep her head turned, he reached out with a cool hand to turn her head. She was still stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze, so he lifted her chin and moved slightly to meet her eyes.

Shimmering golden orbs pooled with emotion met the shy gaze of deep, warm brown eyes veiled with thick lashes, and this time they did not break away from the intense gaze. Instead, they moved closer, drawn in by some invisible force; as if they were both magnets, trying to resist one another but failing with each second spent apart.

"You were no foolish child." He whispered, tears of emotion rolling down onto his pale cheek and the discreet mask. His voice was heavy with emotion, trying to control himself and yet not able to even though he felt like a fool. "And you were worthy, so worthy; it was I who was not worthy. I never could be, Christine...I have nothing to forgive and you- how could you of all people call yourself _pitiful_?"

Christine reached out and touched his face, her fingers feeling warm flesh beneath their cold tips, and she felt as if her heart were being ripped. She didn't even know why she felt this way- but she did know that seeing Erik so affected by the words she had written him was making her feel as if she might be violently sick.

"I hurt you, Erik, inexcusably so. Do not forget that atrocious way I handled the entire situation, acting like a foolish child and a spoilt diva!" she shot back, her own voice cracking now with tears, and Erik's face pooled with horror as one streamed from her eye and ran down her face.

"No, Christine, look back at all I did." He replied brokenly, as if the mere reference to his insanity made him hurt. Christine realised, with another nauseating swing in her stomach, that he probably was hurting at the memories. She needed to stop him, to make him stop blaming himself for everything... "I kidnapped you, I controlled you, I lied, I murdered-"

"You also gave me everything!" Christine tried to deter him from the spiral of self-hate that he was lapsing into by the second. She gripped his hand passionately, her voice strong and practically glowing with the emotions stirring inside her. "And I- I threw it all back in your face. Dear God! How did I do that to you?! Oh, Erik, I cannot even express how I-"

"Christine. Don't" he whispered, his words soft and yet carrying the full impact of an anvil. Pain radiated from every syllable and made Christine feel as if she were going to die right there in front of him-

And then she was leaning forwards and kissing him with uncontrollable passion. It was as if all the emotion within her had built up and up and it was exploding out of her with no control and no thought. She locked her arms around his neck, desperate to be close to him, and she felt him tense in surprise. But then, to her delight, he returned the fierce embrace and began to kiss her back.

She didn't know why she was kissing him so fiercely, or why she craved the feel of his lips of her own and his arms tight around her. She felt as if she were on fire, blazing brightly, in a way she had never experienced before. She did not want to be cradled, or treated gently, she wanted to be kissed and embraced by this man as if she were the most desirable woman in the world. The fire surging through her veins was confusing her mind, muddling the thoughts, leaving room for instinct and instinct alone. She felt so...so...

She suddenly stopped, pulling back from him and looking into his wild, confused eyes. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, hot and desperate against his face. She realised, as she moved back in to kiss him again, that it was not that she wanted his lips upon her own- she _needed_ this. Her heart was pounding, her head spinning, nearly crying in the sweet joy of what felt and tasted like passion and even love-

But then she was falling to the floor, his tight grip on her suddenly gone as he vanished into thin air without a word. She hit the floor with a gasp, feeling the cold smooth wood hit her hot skin, but she did not feel any pain. She could not even move; laying there dazed on the wooden floor, trying to calm her rapid breathing. Why had she done that? What on earth had possessed her to act so stupidly?

_Why had she kissed him?_

Slowly, and stumbling a little with the surge of blood that went to her head as she stood up, Christine sat heavily back down in bed and lay down, her breathing slowing and the heat on her cheeks fading like coals left to cool in the grate overnight. She knew, somehow, that he would be out there somewhere, still guarding her. Her lips felt swollen and bruised from that kiss, and her heart was screaming out for him to still be here.

The night was doing strange things to her, she was sure of it.

Outside in the darkness, beneath a hazy moon, hidden from her line of sight yet guarding diligently all the same, Erik sat and cried.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi again! Chapter 14 is here, sorry it's been a few days, the world is set on making me busy, it seems! This chapter is mainly about Meg. I love Meg- I hated it how they made her so nasty in LND. Christine is awesome, but Meg is bubbly, and sometimes when I am writing all this melancholy stuff you need someone bubbly! :) **

**WOW to my lovely reviewers; thank you so much for the comments! Shout-out to; Dkk5, Hugabouv, icanhearthedrums, two Guests, Christine Stein and TMara! *Big smile* Reviews are loved, as they make the author very happy. :) Now on to the chapter...**

**Fourteen- Prima Donna, First Lady of the Stage  
(The Giry Residence)**

The familiar smell of summer rain was pungent in the air, the humidity an immovable wall of sticky heat and Meg delicately placed a single kiss on Edouard's soft cheek before dashing up the shallow steps to the peeling front door, waving like a windmill until he was out of sight. Her face was pink and a little warm, her blue eyes sparkling, and she went into the house feeling pleasantly tired. The last few days had been so hectic, so full of rehearsals and the drama of Erik and all his problems that Meg had not seen the man she loved for what felt like a painful eternity. But today she had dropped everything as carelessly as she could, going out with Edouard and spending a day being Meg Giry, ballerina and free young woman again.

But as soon as she was a few steps into the cluttered, cheerful hallway she found herself glancing around like a criminal, her breath catching as she heard movement in the doorway. Feeling suddenly like a little girl again, she whirled around and suddenly released a breathless laugh. It was only Pandora.

Meg was trying to be confident, but it was futile, and she knew it. It had been one long, tense week since she had stupidly told Christine about her apparent stalker, despite Erik's orders, so now she found herself in a constant unhappy state of paranoia as she anticipated the day when he would finally come to yell at her for being such an idiot. She told herself each day, as she walked up the steps to the peeling front door, that she would be brave and bear whatever hurtful words he was bound to bellow out without any signs of distress. But then she would come into the hallway, and the confidence would vanish as quickly as...well, as the Opera Ghost!

Meg slowly hung her long coat up, warily glancing behind her as she turned her back on the doorway to check the little table for any post her Mother might have collected. This waiting was starting to grate on her; a whole week of discomfort in her own home simply because he had not come charging in here to berate her yet!

Stupid oaf, she thought bitterly as she slammed the front door again for good measure. Pandora mewled pathetically, but Meg scooped her up and hugged her, feeling the warmth and silky soft fur of her beloved animal against her bare neck. The low, constant thrum of a purr was like the sweetest melody to her ears.

"Ah, mon petit chat." She cooed, cradling the cat as if it were a human baby. "Je t'adore. Are you hungry, little one? Yes, let's go into the kitchen."

Meg danced into the kitchen without thought, waltzing around with Pandora lying against her shoulder, still cooing and talking to her like a madwoman. She had begun to hum her show-tune under her breath when the quiet cough came from behind her, and she whirled around and saw the scene of her Mother, Nadir and _Erik_ sat around the table as if they had broken off in mid-discussion. Meg felt the fire flood to her cheeks and she ducked her head, embarrassed, before gritting her teeth and stalking straight off to the cupboards, ignoring them all.

"Meg?" Antoinette's voice was sharp with confusion and horror at her daughter's blatant dismissal of common manners. "Whatever is the matter with you? It is incredibly rude to barge into a room as you just have without a simple greeting for any of us!"

"Ah, I am sorry about that Mother, but there was an overwhelming sense of loathing in this room- as if some patronising person wishes to tell me that I am an inconsequential little girl?" she retorted without a thought to check her tone, glaring at Erik with malice before turning away again. "But no fear; I am used to it by now."

Meg felt a little smile creep onto her face as she heard her Mother's disgusted tut, or Nadir's amused chuckle which he had hastily smothered, and she was glad that she was not facing the table. Her Mother had a certain glare that could turn the hardest of criminals to trembling wrecks and Meg did not want to ruin this moment; she wanted to savour it.

"Meg! You will apologise to me, Nadir and Erik right this second!" Antoinette sounded outraged; her face was bright red and her hands were clenched with vice tight grip. "I don't understand where this impertinent attitude has come from and know this, my girl, that I do not appreciate it one bit! You are being exceedingly rude!"

Meg gasped aloud in her objection to the harsh words, whirling round as Pandora jumped to the floor, but before she could defend herself with a sharp comment the smooth voice of Erik cut in. She scowled at him, hating it that he had leapt in there before her, and she noticed that he did not meet her eyes.

"Antoinette, Meg has every right to act the way she is now." His voice came quietly and Meg felt her mouth gape open before she hastily closed it with an audible snap of the teeth. So _now _he was going to act gentlemanly and perfectly reasonable? Meg rolled her eyes. "I scolded her and shouted very unkindly, and stupidly, the other day and for that I am unbelievably sorry. Do not say that you are inconsequential- you are, if anything, the opposite."

Meg sniffed and turned back around without a word, though really her heart was flying. She could hear the throbbing of her pulse in her ears, and she could feel a blush creeping up onto her cheeks. Erik's words had shattered all her cynical anger towards him and she hated herself for being such a fool, but she couldn't help it; she felt as if she could fly. She went back to her initial task of feeding her hungry cat, crouching down, and when she finished and looked up she found a thin folder right in her face, held by Erik.

"Excuse me." She said stiffly, hoping that the pink flush on her warm cheeks had faded now. Erik didn't move, her merely thrust the folder closer to her face so that she could feel the paper against her nose. He gripped her arm and helped her up, before passing the folder to her with a small, mysterious smile that made Meg frown a little. "What on Earth is-"

"After we sung together, after I heard your voice and you style and your tonality, I thought that I should use what musical ability I have to harness those qualities. This is a song, Meg, a song that will show off everything that your voice can do. You remember how I wrote songs for Christine? This one is for you." He said this quietly, not sounding smug of the fact, but sheepish. "I mean this as an apology, Meg. I'm so sorry for making you cry. It was never my intention."

"And- and what of me and my inability to keep quiet? Surely you know that I told Christine everything- are you not about to berate me for that too?" she demanded hotly to hide the fact that she was melting right there on the spot. "Will you and Nadir now scorn me, tell me I'm no good and refuse to tell me anything ever again?"

Nadir let out an annoyed sound that seemed to be a mix of a grunt, a sigh and a startling feminine gasp.

"I never have implied such a thing anyway!" Nadir put words to his outrage; looking a little offended that Meg might associate him with such a horrible thought. "But no, we have discussed what has happened at length, after Erik so kindly paid for _my __wall to be fixed__,_ and we decided that your actions were the most sensible thing we have done so far. Christine is now aware of the danger, she can help us with knowledge of the de Chagnys and she now hopefully will not be kidnapped at random."

Antoinette tutted again and rolled her eyes, disparaging.

"Kidnapped at random?" she laughed in disbelief. "Really, Nadir, you are being ridiculous. Speaking of ridiculousness... Meg, do stop acting like a Prima Donna simply because Erik dared to criticise you."

Meg opened her mouth to protest again, but she caught the words before they slipped out. Her Mother would be furious if she discovered that she had been pestering him about his music, so she decided that it would be simpler just to keep her mouth shut for once; a quality she needed to exercise more often, so it seemed.

"Now, why don't we hear this music Erik has composed for you?" Antoinette brightened, scolding over, and Meg smiled wryly as she turned to face Erik.

"I will so kindly forgive you if you forgive me, and if this music really does make me sound heavenly." She said in a haughty tone, clearly teasing, a smile playing on her features. Antoinette tried to stop herself from smiling, and Meg realised in horror that she was _flirting_ with Erik, teasing him as if he was an admiring young man at the Opera. Flirting with the Phantom- Meg nearly burst out laughing.

"Yes, I suppose we should play it then." He replied, sounding satisfied yet distant, his voice not quite happy and yet not sad either. Meg watched carefully as he left the room, everyone following him to the parlour like sheep following their shepherd, and she struggled to think of what seemed different about him. He walked in a reserved way, his head a little bent, his pace firm yet not with a purpose. He had lost all the bubbling optimism from a week ago and Meg didn't understand why. Surely he would be happy now that he was seeing Christine every night?

Nadir was grumbling as he shuffled along that they didn't have time for such things to which Erik turned around and told him to be quiet, sitting down at the piano and turning expectantly to look at Meg, who hurried over to stand beside him. She examined the music for the first time, her eyes widening as she took in the frightening leaps of melody, that achingly high note, the tremolos scattered all over...

It was, by far, the most challenging piece of music she had ever been presented with and told to sing, and this made her clutch her throat in a discreet gesture of panic. She would be mortified if she tried to reach the high note and sounded like a toad, or if she just sounded awful. The fact that Erik thought she would suit this tune did mollify her a little, but even geniuses made mistakes and Meg was trembling at the thought of being Erik's first ever musical mistake.

Erik saw the panic in her wide eyes and he hardened his gaze, his visible eyebrow arched and his face set firmly. It was as if he were telling her not to fuss and Meg stared back and nodded slowly, seeing the pleased look take over his face again. He looked proud of her and that was enough for Meg. She stood up straight, smiling a little now, and awaited her cue.

Erik nodded and with a swift blast of melody, he began to play the song. The music danced about, surprisingly happy and jumpy compared to all his other compositions, which were all melancholy, dark arias weeping with emotion. This music was the sort of music that made Meg want to dance, which she supposed was the point to it. It was nothing like anything Erik had ever written before and she was nothing like anyone he had composed for. Meg couldn't help but beam at her Mother and Nadir as her entrance came, and as she went for the note with all she had she hit it with astounding perfection.

'_From the rush of the streets, to the people you meet,  
What's not to love about Paris?  
Filled with joys and delights, through the days and the nights,  
How can you not love Paris?  
You'll never tire of the sights and the sounds,  
There's so much to see and do.  
I can't think of anything better,  
Than spending time in Paris with you!'_

There was more to the song, but Meg found herself so ecstatic with the song and so proud of how she sounded when she sang it at the top of her voice she couldn't help but ignore the next cue and throw her arms around Erik, laughing as he toppled forward and landed against the keys. They made an awful sound, notes clashing, but Meg didn't hear it. She only heard the sound of her voice- _her voice_- swelling and soaring as if she were a star like Christine.

Antoinette did not know what was more shocking; how her daughter's voice sounded or the fact that Meg had attacked Erik with a hug. Her daughter's voice was clearly a perfect match for the jaunty, cheery show tune; it wasn't at all the Christine aria she had been expecting. It was, quite simply...Meg. Every note, every chord, summarised her daughter without a flaw.

"Bravo!" Nadir clapped like mad, smiling as Meg released Erik (who looked a little bewildered, in truth) and bowed to them all, flushed pink and looking exceedingly pleased. "I would pay good money to listen to the full song, perhaps with a dance on stage. You are a very talented young woman!"

Erik got up from the piano stool and stretched, not looking as happy as Nadir had expected. His face seemed to be incapable of smiling, and Nadir was once again filled with the same worry he had been experiencing all of this last week in regards to his friends feelings.

"That was my initial plan, Nadir." Erik admitted, collecting the sheets of music from the piano, slipping them back inside the folder and passing them to the still beaming Meg, who had now stopped chattering to listen avidly. "This song is to give you the spotlight we all know that you deserve. With your voice, and your dancing of course, you could do very well."

"A good idea indeed!" Antoinette exclaimed, even her usually calm face tickled pink and smiling broadly. She stood up fluidly, clapping her hands together, and turned directly to Nadir and Erik. "I insist that you both stay for some tea and pastries- to celebrate. Would you care to join us?"

Nadir nodded eagerly and thanked Antoinette profusely, excited at the prospect of some real food at last (they had been living on hard bread and potatoes that had begun to sprout like hideous monsters, causing Nadir much concern over dinner) but Erik's face fell. Nadir ground his teeth as Erik assumed his melancholy mood again and declined the offer, saying that he had things to do.

Nadir was reaching a point of annoyance with Erik. His friend was acting as if he were depressed; expressing no emotion at all, not even anger. He had been quiet and illusive all week, avoiding conversation and simply playing the piano for all hours of the day. Nadir couldn't understand why, which made him even more infuriated. He had expected the nightly visits to Christine to make Erik happier, or at least pleasant company. Nadir sat in silence until Erik had left, before telling the Giry's about Erik and the publishing offer.

"Why, that is simply amazing!" Antoinette sounded surprised by the news, passing Nadir some tea and cake almost as if it were a reward for his efforts. "I had never even considered that as an option before- oh how wonderful! He is so talented, Nadir, a musical genius. Will he take the offer?"

Nadir sighed, looking down into his china teacup, and he saw Antoinette deflate visibly. Surely they all knew better by now that he would never agree to such a thing.

"He said he will not consider it- he said he is too busy right now." Nadir said heavily, watching as Antoinette nodded sadly. But Meg sat up, shocked, her face a mask of outrage.

"He is being completely stupid!" she exclaimed, looking angered. "He fusses far too much about simple things that could easily be solved if he just acted upon his emotions for once! If he stopped pining and whingeing about Christine and instead just proved how he feels then-"

"_Enough!_" Antoinette snapped, cutting her daughter off. Meg's face slipped into a pout. "Do not involve yourself if you do not understand, you foolish child. He already acted upon emotion once, remember, and that ended badly. To prove how he feels may sound easy to you, Meg, but to do such a thing after she chose someone else over him combined with the fact he knows he was cruel would be an impossible task! He hates himself, Meg. Erik is fragile and to force such things upon him would break him."

"Your Mother is right, Meg." Nadir continued in heavy voice. Meg knew that they all hated the truth, but she seemed incapable of accepting it. "Almost in proof of this, he has been subdued and upset ever since he began to watch over Christine every night. I tried asking him about it, asking him if he goes inside or talks to her at all, but he said that she sleeps whilst he sits on the balcony."

"Hm." Antoinette said, a frown in her voice and on her face. "I don't know what it is like for her, but if I were being guarded by someone every single night I think that I would at least say hello to them. You don't think that something bad has happened between them, do you?"

Nadir put down his empty cup as he sighed, feeling suddenly as if her were a parent with a particularly difficult child to appease. He hated the worry that Erik caused him, as he truly did care about his friend's well-being, but Nadir knew that whenever he voiced this concern Erik would only get angry.

"Define bad." He eventually said with a groan, making Antoinette's eyes widen in alarm. "With those two, anything could happen. I have a feeling that I should be forcing Erik to leave Paris now, while he still can, but then I don't think I could persuade him. He cares so much about that stupid girl that he would gladly wither away just to ensure she is happy."

Meg felt sad at Nadir's comment, stirring her tea with a dreamy, far away gaze into nothing. The dull room seemed to disappear as she lost herself in her own thoughts, once again contemplating how she could help Erik and dear Christine. Her main priority to ensure they were happy remained.

Meg knew that she could be a little dramatic at times, and that her romantic dreams for Christine and Erik were improbable, but it hurt her to see both of them so unhappy, and in her mind the only way to ensure that this unhappiness ended would be to help them realise they loved one another. Meg nearly laughed as she recalled conversations with her mother in regards to Erik and Christine's affections. With Erik it was obvious; he adored Christine, he couldn't help it, and he would never cease loving her. But Christine was a harder person to understand. Meg had always been unsure of her friends true feelings as children; Christine often hid her pain and suffering behind a brave face, and she was always very cautious.

Nadirs melancholy ramblings sparked an interest again, dragging her out of her musings and slowly back to the surface of reality.

"-so our plan still relies heavily on finding the unknown man. He could easily be a misguided fan, or a servant, as easily as he could be a sinister stalker." Nadir was explaining to Antoinette, and though Meg knew it all herself she still listened intently. "We can't risk the unknown. Erik would never settle for anything other than the optimum safety for Christine; he is adamant that she remains completely safe. Of course, we would be grateful if you, or Meg, or even both of you arranged some weekly day out with her; one that the de Chagnys are aware of. Raoul leaves the city tomorrow morning, so she can claim boredom. Then, as you three go about the city, Erik and I can follow in the shadows and see if this mystery man crops up. If he then did, it would imply that a de Chagny ordered him to follow her."

"They never did like her. Especially the Comte." Meg chipped in, causing both Nadir and Antoinette to look up at once. "She told me all about it when she was here. No-one in that class likes her, and if Raoul does he doesn't show it. It must be a horrible life."

They were all silent for a moment.

"Well, you could organise that Christine and I come to watch you perform your song, when and if the managers ask you to." Antoinette gestured to the sheet music with a sudden smile, obviously trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.

"Good idea." Meg beamed, optimistic again. "I'm sure Christine would love to see the new seating and stage of the Opera Populaire; it is rather beautiful, actually. I wonder if they ever did destroy the catacombs. The tunnels would surely be intact, but what about the lake, the organ...?"

Once again, they were all silent, and Meg cursed herself for bringing up such a thing. It would probably be awkward enough for Christine to return to the Opera Populaire, let alone to have Meg bringing up stupid little things about the past so thoughtlessly! Before anyone could dwell on the matter any further, Nadir rose from his chair and smiled.

"Thank you so much for the tea and for your sane conversation. It has been rather pleasant, hasn't it?" he said with feeling, his eyes warm. "But I fear that Erik might have caused yet more damage to my house with my absence. He punched a huge hole in the wall, you know, the stupid oaf that he is."

Meg giggled as Antoinette went to see Nadir off, before turning back to the parlour. She walked in and saw the old piano sat there, as usual, minding its own business and looking dull. It was hard to believe that beautiful music had been radiating from such an old, battered thing earlier that Meg could do little else than stare at it.

She sat down on the stool, placing her fingers lightly on the ivory coloured keys, just feeling their smooth texture and imagining what it would be like to simply sit down and be able to create the music of heaven. She couldn't play the piano- she had never wanted to- but to see Erik so absorbed by his music, so lost and free, it made Meg wonder what the sensation would be like to be truly lost within music. She knew that she was no heavenly singer and that at heart she was a dancer, suited to ballet or perhaps show tunes, if pushed.

But Christine and Erik...it was as if their music was _them_; it took hold of everything about them and they shone with it. No-one could question their ability and Meg knew that Christine and Erik singing together was a collision of heaven, genius and brilliance. Their music was music of love, passion and beauty and together they lost themselves within it. Erik's face was far from beautiful, but his music...

Meg sighed a little wistfully and picked up the score for her song, examining how the black stave and notation stood out on the creamy, pure white of the paper. She found Christine and Erik in the paper; Erik in the black of the notes, Christine in the pure white of the paper, both of them in the melody itself-

Meg slowly lifted the paper up and up until it was right up close to her face. She didn't quite know what she was doing, but she could suddenly smell the Persian perfumes infused in the paper, the sandalwood, the spices and then that other smell...of roses and darkness and hearts beating faster, heavy and powerful and enough to make her head spin out of control.

Meg closed her eyes as she hugged the paper to her chest, feeling her legs wobble.

This wasn't right. It wasn't right to feel like this- not when she knew Erik was so desperately in love with Christine. And she...she loved Edouard, she did, she _did_!

Meg threw the paper down and stormed out of the room.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi again, I am uploading another chapter today- I need to meet my two updates a week goal! :-) I'm hoping that when I'm not so busy updates will become more regular. We have some more drama in this chapter...poor Erik :-( **

**Thank you so much to my reviewers; Christine Stein, Hugabouv and TMara! :-)**

**Enjoy!**

**Fifteen- My Broken Soul Can't Be Alive or Whole  
(Nadir's home)**

The day dragged on and on, refusing to give in to the night and darkness, so when Erik decided it was time to ready himself for another night playing guardian angel it was still light outside, the sun taunting him with its harsh rays. He hated the sun; it was like an ostentatious aristocrat, always showing off and leaving everyone else feeling insignificant to its dazzling light. The moon was far gentler; Erik could never understand humanity's obsession with daytime.

Erik was deciding on what book to take and read when Nadir came home, the loud slamming of the front door almost ominous to his ears. The Persian came into the same room as Erik, shifty eyed and hesitant, and Erik felt his own eyes roll. Nadir obviously wanted to talk about something; he could read his friends face like an open book. Imagining yet another boring conversation about that damn publisher, Erik gave an irritated sigh.

"If you're planning to moan and whinge to me about how I should agree to your harebrained publishing plan Khan then you might as well not bother." He snapped icily, foraging for some blank score sheets to write up, scrunching a few perfectly good pieces in his heavy handed anger. "I'm not in the mood for foolish games and ridiculous 'what ifs'. I need to leave within the hour."

There were a few moments of total silence in the room and Erik dared to hope that Nadir had realised that his was in a bad mood and was not going to be willing to discuss stupid ideas. But those hopes were well and truly obliterated when Nadir replied, even sounding shifty.

"How can you assume that I intend to talk anyway?" he muttered, sounding put out, and Erik felt an annoying smile slip onto his face. Nadir was his weakness; someone he cared about, someone who he found funny, someone who could get away with yelling at him. They had been a duo for so long that Erik had images of Nadir and himself sitting in wheelchairs, hardly able to move, grey haired and bickering. He turned to face his friend slowly, trying to force the smile to leave his face and yet not managing it.

"You had the serious look upon your face. And your voice was nervous." He managed to reply coolly, seeing Nadir shift a little uncomfortably. "You always have such tell-tale faces Khan. It's rather stupid to be so obvious; especially when you are scared of talking to me."

Nadir smiled and sat down, looking relived but still hesitant. Erik could tell that, no matter what he said, Nadir was bound to spout at him. He met Nadir's level gaze, hoping to put the Persian off with his usual techniques, but Nadir seemed resolute upon having this conversation. Erik sighed loudly.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Erik, you are right." Nadir sighed, his voice careful. He held eye contact, though his leg was twitching annoyingly. "I do want to talk to you, but not about the publisher. Though if you have changed your mind-"

"No." Erik cut him off harshly, already annoyed that Nadir seemed so scared to have a simple conversation with him. "And if this is about your damned wall-"

"No. It's not about the wall." Nadir said gravely, at last losing his nerves as the full gravity of the situation seemed to finally have an effect on him. He played with strand of material that was coming lose form his waistcoat, nimble fingers looping it round and round his finger so that Erik was sure it would cut of the blood supply. "It's about...well I just wanted to...Erik, please don't take offense to this, but ever since you've been watching over the Vicomtess at night you've changed. You have been depressed, Erik, and that spark you had a week ago is gone again. You haven't even been angry this past week-"

Erik let out a growl of anger, eyes suddenly icy cold and dangerous, much like the Opera Ghost all over again. Nadir felt a swing in the pit of his stomach, and he immediately knew that he had crossed the line and hit a nerve.

"Alright, Khan, you wanted to anger me?" he hissed, gripping the crumpled score sheets again so that they became tight balls of scrunched paper. "Well you have succeeded with great success!"

His words made Nadir flush crimson and look away, as if her were ashamed, but still he did not look scared. He seemed to take a deep breath before turning to face the irate Erik again.

"Look, Erik-"

"Don't you dare patronise me, Khan!"

"Then don't act like a child!" Nadir shot back icily, making Erik's face turn to thunder. He stood up, slowly and menacingly, so Nadir stood up too. They faced one another from across the room, both looking wound up and ready to break into a hysterical fit of anger. "I am, once again, simply trying to show some concern for you. You are like a brother to me, Erik, and I honestly care. Can you not see that I am trying to maintain your well-being?"

"Unfortunately, Khan, I can only see meddling!" Erik spat with venom, turning away from his friend as if disgusted by him and his words. "I am an adult and I am not aware that I need to be taken care of!"

As Erik's words hit home, Nadir clenched his fists tightly in fury. He felt like a tightly wound spring and Erik was testing him to his limits; he was fed up and was done with petty arguments. His concern for his friend was too important to him and he wasn't about to stop caring because Erik demanded it in yet another childish tantrum.

"Then take care of yourself!" he bellowed, sounding the most angry he had ever been. The magnitude of anger and noise had the desired effect, and Erik lapsed into stunned silence, his face shocked. Yes, Nadir thought bitterly as Erik sat down heavily, I have a tongue in my head. He took the opportunity to continue, well aware that with Erik, silences didn't last very long. "I'm not claiming to understand you, Erik; that's my problem. I don't have the slightest idea what's happened since you started watching over that wretched woman with the diligence of a warped guard dog, but you are acting as if you are chronically depressed and I am not about to let it continue regardless. For God's sakes, Erik, you have a tongue in your head; if you still love the girl, bloody well tell her so!"

Breathing heavily from the maddened rant and still fuming, Nadir grouchily glared at Erik, seeing his friend sit still for a moment or so before slowly clenching his fists. As soon as he did so, his face began to turn an odd shade of red that reminded Nadir of a particularly fine wine he had once sampled, and he found himself morbidly fascinated by how odd it looked to see one half of Erik's face red and the other flesh coloured, as he was wearing his mask.

After another minute of no sound, only angered breathing, Nadir threw his arms up as a sign of defeat and flopped down into a chair, exasperated. He didn't have the energy to combat Erik, who was so stubborn Nadir knew that he would keep his hand in open flames just to prove a point.

"Do you not take my point at all?" Nadir asked, sounding exhausted and defeated. It rather ruined the effect of his sudden outburst, but then he was not used to being so angry. It was tiring. "Because I don't want to let you go on with such an arrangement if you're not happy. It's not healthy for you or my poor house."

"That's it; go ahead and mention the damn wall again. Be your typical self and hold stupid grudges." Erik muttered as he glanced at the large, domineering grandfather clock which began to chime. Each proud chime went straight through Nadir's head. "I need to go; now."

Nadir rolled his eyes and watched in mild distaste as Erik got up and swiftly collected his things, his face firm and his jaw clenched. He could tell that his stubborn pig of a friend would take no notice of this hissy fit, unless he planned to tease him for it later on, and so Nadir simply settled back in the chair and tried to console himself. The clock finished it's empowering chimes, the last lingering in the air like mist, and Erik turned to face Nadir, hand poised on the door handle.

"Goodbye." He sulked, shutting the door behind him as he left the warmth and headed into the dusk. Nadir sat still, staring at the closed door for about a minute after Erik had left.

Then he shot up with a irritated grunt, setting off on a rampage of his own, only unlike Erik he was being constructive and not a mindless thug. As he raged around clearing up mess and dusting all his little ornaments from Persia, Nadir felt the similar feelings of being a parent, with Erik as the unruly child. He detested the fact that Erik could never see anyone else's views on things in life, an what made it all even worse was that Erik could be the best company a man could wish for! Nadir knocked over a little side table and sent all the contents spilling to the ground, so he turned and kicked the chair with all the force he could. Erik had turned him, a usually sane and calm person, into a maddened wreck.

After nearly fifteen minutes of tearing around in an enraged frenzy, tidying his home at a ferocious rate, Nadir simply had to step outside into the fresh air to calm himself down. His face felt so hot it burned and his breathing was harsh and ragged; this was the hottest he'd ever been in France!

Nadir stepped outside into the evening air, seeing the sky slowly fade from blue to the orange of another glorious sunset, feeling the cool air kiss his hot face. It was pure bliss to have quiet and calm again, and Nadir remained outside for longer than he had meant to. Eventually he felt calm again, and so turned to head back inside, but that was when his ears were met with a horrifying strangled howling sound.

Nadir, resisting the urge to go inside a get a cup of water to tip over the cat that was making the noise, went down the few steps and happened to look down. When he did, he almost had a heart attack.

There, sat trembling and sobbing for all he was worth, concealed by the shadow of the house, was Erik.

"Gah!" Nadir nearly tripped and fell on his face like a buffoon, flailing and grabbing the door handle in order to steady himself as his breathing slowed. He felt ill with the shock to his calm system. "What are you doing, you complete oaf?! You nearly killed me!"

Nadir watched in horror as Erik tried to speak, but couldn't stop the pathetic sobs for long enough to get the words out. This was exactly what Nadir knew he was trying to save Erik from; crying in the dark, ashamed of his pain, alone...

"Forgive this stupid outburst. I'm an idiot; a fool!" Erik managed to choke out between gasps for air and sobs, his crying gradually ceasing as his face set into a scowl. "Only your lamenting and whining, whilst being a pitiful excuse for friendly care and a complete annoyance to have to endure, it is all so-oh Nadir, I am slowly being eaten up from the inside! My heart feels as if it is dead and yet with each beat I feel as if I will be sick."

"Well, stop trying to explain to me what the matter is whilst you are still crying. Calm down." Nadir sighed, passing his friend a handkerchief. Once again, the parental feelings came back, only this time Nadir felt a little glad that he could help poor Erik, who was probably embarrassed at being such a pitiful fool.

Erik accepted the handkerchief, and Nadir's assistance, but he felt as confused as he stopped and stared up at the darkening sky. He felt lost. The problem was a matter that he did not dare to discuss with his friend, for he knew what Nadir was bound to say, and yet he couldn't go on like this. He was being tormented, tormented by the images of what had occurred and the thoughts of how he, a hideous beast, could never deserve to do such things-

"She...she..."

Nadir sat down next to Erik on the steps and waited, holding his breath and hardly daring to imagine what on Earth had caused such an outburst from his friend. Then, in a dizzying rush, Erik suddenly let out everything he could feel inside his heart, which was throbbing painfully so that his whole chest seemed to ache.

"She kissed me, Nadir! She kissed _me_! Without being asked- I didn't even see it coming and I felt- oh I can't even describe how I- she kissed me, Nadir, and her soft lips soothed every burning pain and memory in my wreck of a body! She held me, clung to me, as if I was the only thing she cared about- she brought all the emotions out of me and I kissed her back. On the mouth, Nadir, not a chaste brush to the forehead, on my mouth-!"

Nadir couldn't help but gape. He tried to close his mouth, aware that he must have looked stupid and gormless, but he simply couldn't. Christine had kissed Erik? Kissed him? He shook his head and tried to get the image to stick, but he couldn't. He turned to ask Erik for more details, but to his horror he saw that Erik had stopped and put his head into his hands. Oh God. Had she screamed or hit him? Perhaps removed his mask?!

"Well, what else happened Erik?!" Nadir demanded, urgency making the words sound sharp.

"She-"

"Yes?"

"When I kissed her back, she- oh, she only held me closer and kissed me with such passion Nadir! I felt I would die- die right in her arms!" he wailed, sounding horrified as he continued to keep his head in his hands, still hysterical.

Nadir actually laughed in disbelief, though he hastily stopped when Erik's head shot up and his enraged eyes bored into Nadirs.

"I don't find any of this at all amusing, Khan!" Erik hissed, recoiling from Nadir quickly. "Perhaps you might like to share with me what was so evidently funny?"

"No, it wasn't that something was amusing, you fool." Nadir said, bewildered by Erik's reactions to everything. "It's just that...Erik, surely if she...if she kissed you and enjoyed you kissing her then surely that is what you want? That would imply that she-"

"NO!" Erik roared, visibly distressed. Nadir hastily shut up, letting Erik speak. The last thing he wanted was for Erik to wake all the neighbours with his yelling. "She is married, Khan! MARRIED! I just- she must have- I'm sure that she just felt sorry for me- oh I can't do this, Nadir, I can't!"

Nadir raised an eyebrow and earned a hit round the head from Erik, who delivered this blow with a plant pot. Nadir rubbed his head, wincing as his tentative fingers met the tender spot, and he brushed soil and bits of plant form his depleting hair with a scowl. Erik didn't seem to care, he simply continued to rant.

"Every time I imagine I'm strong enough to cope, to resist- but she is etched into my heart. She always will be- she will never leave my mind, Nadir! Curse this! Curse this all!"

Erik angrily got up again and began to pace up and down the shallow steps, somehow managing to not slip despite the fact that he was angry and that there was now soil everywhere from his stunt with the plant pot. He was grinding his teeth as he went, and Nadir shivered at the sound, hating it. He couldn't believe that Erik was moaning now- surely he had everything he wanted if Christine was enjoying kissing him? Nadir found himself watching Erik's face as he paced madly, and he saw that it was tormented and angry. Erik honestly saw the kiss as a bad thing. Dear God, Nadir thought tiredly, Erik please stop finding more things to whinge about.

"So, what happened after she kissed you?" Nadir asked, sounding bored, and Erik grimaced. He was angry now, not sad, which was an indication that he was feeling better.

"I bolted, of course. You don't even need to ask such an obvious question, you fool." He snarled, angrier with himself than Nadir. He seemed to be hurling abuse at himself both verbally and mentally. "I looked into those wide, beautiful eyes that were glowing in the darkness of the room and I knew that if I stayed a moment more I would have done something repugnant and wrong, such as to kiss her again. Imagine, Nadir, a beast like me allowing myself to taint her beauty! ARGH!"

"So have you been leaving her unattended these past nights?" Nadir asked sharply. Erik gasped, and looked as if he wanted to launch another plant pot missile at Nadir's head.

"God no, you complete blockhead! You blathering idiot!" he bellowed, and Nadir cringed away from the sound. "Why on Earth would I do that? Why would I risk her safety because I was a complete and utter imbecile?! I simply watch her from outside; I told you this!"

"Yes, but I thought-"

"Well don't!"

Nadir snapped his mouth shut and pursed his lips, deciding to now simply ignore the abuse and rise above his idiot friend's outburst, which he was bound to regret at some point. Erik never meant all he said when in a temper, Nadir knew that, so he didn't let it bother him too much.

"I really ought to go now."

And with that last sharp comment, Erik strode off into the night, leaving Nadir sat on his own front steps in soil and dirt, rubbing his head angrily.

Meanwhile, in the de Chagny townhouse, Christine was pacing around her lavish bedroom with her head reeling as she tried to think of a way to deter her husband, who was bound to come tearing into her room within a matter of minutes. She brushed her hair roughly as she paced, ripping at the knots with all the force she could muster, trying to ignore the tremble in her hands. She felt sick.

Raoul was leaving tomorrow and yet she was still trying to keep him away from her. She didn't feel as guilty about this as expected, thinking bitterly to herself that he would probably find an obliging prostitute once away from home anyway, and she knew that she couldn't let Raoul come in here, because he might catch sight of Erik.

Christine tried to pretend, as she paced and nearly burst into tears, that this was her only motive for keeping him away from her tonight. But in truth, she didn't like or enjoy it when he groped and kissed her, as she never felt treasured or loved; it always felt forced and brutal. Raoul was not a gentle man; he never cared about her, usually pleasing himself before staggering off to get drunk and sleep with another woman.

Christine felt her hair finally give way to the hairbrush, her scalp throbbing from how she had tugged at each tangle and knot. She didn't enjoy feeling like a prostitute with her own husband. She didn't enjoy Raoul's idea of intimacy. She also felt scared; scared that if he did get his own way and he loved her in his violent, brutal way, she would be craving another pair of hands, another pair of lips.

That would be the opposite of helpful in this situation.

Giving up on her hair, Christine slowly changed into her nightgown and drew the long, heavy, ornate curtains nearly all the way over the French doors, hating that the moonlight had now been shut out of the room. Normally she left them open, to help Erik if he was out there as he had said he would be, but now she needed to prepare for the fact that Raoul would storm in here, and he would see Erik if the curtains were open.

Christine almost was violently sick when another thought popped into her head. What if Raoul came in to her room, did what he liked and Erik saw them through the window?! God that would be awful! Christine was nearly in tears as she fought to decide whether to keep the curtains open or not. She prayed he wouldn't come-

And yet just as she calmed herself down and slipped into bed, the door banged open with such force it nearly wrenched off of the hinges, and Raoul came swaggering in, the stench of alcohol radiating from him so powerfully Christine gagged. She hoped that she would be horribly sick all over him, to make him go away. She was scared of her own husband.

"Raoul." She said, trying to hide the tremble in her voice, but she could barely speak anyway. She clenched her trembling hands and tried to avoid his bloodshot eyes. "I think you ought to go to sleep, darling, you have a terribly long journey tomorrow-"

Raoul laughed, and undid the tie around his neck, tossing it aside in a manner that looked ridiculous.

"Christine, don't." He slurred the words, coming over to her and pulling her up to a sitting position. He sat beside her, and the alcohol smell was nearly unbearable. "It's bad enough that you don't want to come with me. Please change your mind."

He reached out to caress her face with gentle fingertips, but his drunken state did not allow him to control such things, and his grip was so forceful it hurt. Christine tried to hold in the whimper that was battling to escape her mouth.

"You're hurting me, Raoul." She whispered, feeling petrified as he slowly pushed her down against the pillow. His breath was hot and sour against her cheek. "Let go."

Raoul laughed, shoving her without a care and pinning her shoulders down as he deftly climbed over her, his eyes alight with glittering malice that caused hot tears to well up and escape her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. Could he not see them? Did he not care? Would he let go of her?

"No."

He began to kiss her roughly, treating her as if she were lifeless and unable to feel pain, his coarse hands wandering, not gently, and Christine for the first time in her life began to fight back. She struggled against his strength, screaming out once until he clamped his hand over her mouth and belted her about the head. She couldn't cry out.

"Oh, stop it Christine." He snickered. "Don't pretend that you don't like this."

She writhed and screamed silently against his forceful hand as he continued to kiss her and treat her like a prostitute, hurting her with the force of his hand and the aggression of his mouth. His breath was a hot, sour reek and she was convinced that she would throw up. She eventually got up the courage to bite his hand and deliver and well placed kick to his groin, which had him yelping and smacking her around the head again.

"You bitch!" he hissed, gripping a fistful of her hair to make her look at him. Her nose was bleeding from the last smack, and this time she did whimper. The sound seemed to enrage him further, his eyes wild. "I am your husband, you whore, I can do what I like!"

And with his strength and power over her, despite her screams and protests, he did.

She cried the whole time, struggling and trying in vain to free herself, but his drunken state had not impaired his strength. When he was done with her, he stood up and spat on the floor, turning away from her bleeding face and tear filled eyes.

Christine could not move as she lay there, watching him. She felt broken, used and discarded. This was not what love was meant to be.

"Say that you love me." Raoul said quietly, slurring gone.

Christine was silent as she lay there, shivering. Even if she had wanted to speak, she knew that the words would not come. She felt abused and so scared as she lay there, unable to do as he demanded, and a trickle of blood mingled with a tear on her cheek and dripped onto the lily white pillow. Her nightgown was in tatters, her hair a mess, her nose throbbing and her heart...her heart was shattered.

"SAY IT!" he bellowed suddenly, turning and rushing over to grip her with a forceful hand by the throat. She struggled to breathe, thrashing wildly-

And then the French doors smashed open in an explosion of glass and Raoul was pulled off of her, suddenly gone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hey all! I must ask you now; do you have your Team Erik pompoms at the ready? Because I have three words for you; FOP BOPPING TIME! **

**Thank you so much for all the follows/faves/reads/reviews; they are all very much appreciated. A big thank-you to my reviewers; icanhearthedrums, TMara, a Guest, Christine Stein and Hugabouv. Right! Time for the chapter! *waves Team Erik banner***

**Sixteen- Sir, This Is Indeed an Unparalleled Delight  
(Christine de Chagny's bedroom)**

The ear-splitting crash of glass shattering was surprisingly tuneful as it filled the darkness of the room, miniscule crystalline shards thrown across the plush carpet like sinister confetti. As the moonlight shone down into the room, the carpet winked and glittered like the night sky. One moment, Raoul de Chagny had been gripping his young wife's throat like a sadistic madman and the next he was pinned against a wall, his own throat gripped by an iron fist as he gurgled and writhed pathetically.

Erik was boiling with fury. He had already suffered enough this night, or so he thought, for when he had arrived at the balcony later than usual he had peered through the unusually drawn curtains only to release a cry of horror, springing back and cringing away from the French doors. For inside that room, Raoul and Christine had been locked in intimacy, a sight Erik would now have blazed into his mind forever.

So he had sat on the balcony, trying desperately to remove that hideous image from his poor tortured mind and watching the gentle moon with wistful eyes, trying to forget where he was and just appreciate the view. He had just started to doze off a little, eyes heavy and drooping as if weighted, when the sound of an enraged bellow roused him in seconds with more effect than a bucket of ice cold water would have had. He had leapt up and gone straight to the window, the fear of Christine's well-being taking far more priority than his own fear of being scarred by another disgusting image, and in that split second he had gone completely mad.

For when Erik had looked frantically inside Christine's bedroom, fearing that someone had burst in and hurt her and her fop of a husband, he had seen the foul, miserable, and loathsome beast strangling Christine- _his_ Christine!

Erik had not been in a calm enough state to use the door handle. He had smashed the French doors in order to pull the beast off of her and now he intended to beat the inhumane swine until he lay dead on the floor in a pile of his own filthy blood.

Raouls face was turning a startling shade of purple, his thrashing becoming weaker and weaker by the second, but Erik was not done yet. He threw the Vicomte to the floor with an enraged yell, setting upon him with his fists. Raoul fought back, throwing a punch aimed at Erik's head, but he missed and fell again in his attempt to scramble up. As Erik lifted him up and dragged him back to the wall his wild eyes caught site of Christine lying on the bed and his heart stopped. He could feel his breathing speed up, harsh and ragged as his eyes took in her bloodied face, her dishevelled state, the tears trickling down her cheeks as she lay staring at him in open mouthed shock-

"Christine- help me!" Raoul wheezed out, starting to struggle again. How could he dare to ask her to help him? After all he had done-? Erik snapped.

"PREPARE TO DIE, YOU MISOGNYSTIC BASTARD!"

Erik threw Raoul down to the floor again, this time with double the strength. He grabbed an ornate looking candle stick from somewhere behind him and, before he knew what he was doing, he began to beat the snivelling wretch with it, delighting in each agonised scream that pierced the otherwise silent room-

"ERIK! STOP!"

Suddenly Erik found himself on the floor, pulled backwards by a sudden force that he did not predict. He let go of the candle stick and it landed to the floor with a dull thud, rolling away from him as if to escape his maddened grasp. Erik could feel his heartbeat in his mouth, throbbing in his ears, filling his entire head as the heat escaped into the room. His harsh breathing quickened as he felt cool hands helping him up, icy bliss against the hellish burn-

"Dear God you might have killed him! What were you thinking? Are you insane?!"

Christine's accusing voice was hysterical, her sobs of shock distorting the words and making them ugly, guttural sounds that made Erik flinch. He scrambled up, his head thick and dizzy with the rush of adrenaline, only to see Christine on the floor by Raoul, barely concealed by a thick cover from her bed, gingerly prodding his head and gasping as her moonbeam, white hands came away sticky with her husband's blood.

"Christine- you cannot tell me that you are angry with me for doing that to him?" Erik demanded, breathing heavy from the exertion of the beating. "He_ raped_ you, you foolish girl! He hurt you and beat you and raped you and yet for some absurd reason you berate me for trying to kill him- he deserves death! He deserves a thousand deaths, all painful and lingering so that he suffers as you have suffered! Don't you dare tell me I am in the wrong!"

"I am his wife, Erik." She whispered back, blood still dripping down her pale face from her nose, which looked sore and inflamed. From Raouls violence? Erik was trembling with the suppressed desire to pick up the fops body and hurl him from the balcony so that his scrawny neck broke. "You do not understand."

"No, you are right Christine! I do not understand at all!" Erik yelled, a sob of emotion catching in his throat as he moved closer to her and took her face in his trembling hands, forcing those wide brown eyes to meet his own agonised gaze. "How can you defend him? He has used and abused you; treated you like an object that he can buy and throw around with no care or compassion- it is not right to use you like that! Oh God, Christine, oh God!"

Quite suddenly, Erik had his arms tightly around her, embracing her for all he was worth as he sobbed silently into her matted curls, feeling her warmth and hating her for not defending herself whilst feeling so terribly in love. She laid her pounding head against his warm chest, smelling Persian perfumes and darkness, and she too began to cry. She knew, deep within her heart, that Erik was right. She knew that Raoul was a bully and that she was a fool for letting him treat her as if she were worthless. She knew that when he forced himself upon her it wasn't because of love or desire; it was an animalistic need to be dominant and superior to her. But it was so hard to find the words to stop him, hard to have no-one at all on her side in this world of false friends and prejudice. She was too weak to stop him.

As the steady drip of scarlet blood from her nose reached her lip and the iron tang filled her mouth, Christine felt Erik fumble for a handkerchief. Then, with almost paternal care, he slowly and gently wiped the blood away, his eyes lowered as he tried to hide the pooled tears within. She gasped a little in pain as his gentle hands stroked her face and met the tender skin that had been brutally smacked over and over, still pink and tender, and at once his eyes flashed up and glared at Raouls unconscious body with a fearsome wrath that made Christine tremble against him.

"I don't care that you disagree." He said quietly, voice tense and strained as if he were fighting to control something; probably his urges to kill her husband. "I am going to kill him for what he has done. He cannot ever apologise enough- there is nothing he can ever do to make up for this atrocious deed!"

Christine's hand darted out and met his flushed cheek, causing him to turn to her with desperate eyes. She could not do anything more than pin him there with her eyes, wide and imploring him to be sensible, watching as he was torn between what he so desired and keeping her happy.

"You mustn't kill him, Erik, whatever you do." She told him gently, reaching for his hand and still keeping another on his flushed face, feeling the anger slowly start to cool and seep out of his tensed body. "You would be caught and taken away if you did, and then we would never be able to see one another again. I-I know that he is a monster at times, and that he so often deserves your wrath to be unleashed upon him, but he leaves tomorrow morning. He will be gone for at least half this year, and that will be half a year spent with you if you do not kill him."

Erik squeezed her soft hand, staring down at it with his golden eyes, unable to think clearly. He so wanted to kill that stupid fop, to make him pay once and for all, but Christine's eyes were pleading with him. Her eyes were a weakness that could bring him to his knees. He looked up at her warily, seeing bruises and tender skin, aware that as soon as he met those captivating eyes he would be slave to her wishes.

"You want to see me?" he whispered, staring at her soft rose lips instead, finding their divine shape scarily seductive, which only served to remind him of their heated, stolen kiss. "Not just out of pity- you actually wish for my company?"

"I adore your company, Erik." She replied in a voice that could challenge angels for beauty. "How could I not? I value you so much; of course I want to see you!"

She wiped away a tear that leaked from his near closed eyes, and in that instant he looked up and into her own. Instantly he was ensnared by their depth, their emotion, their life. He felt, for the second time within this hour, that he might explode only this time from the sheer joy of her words, hearing them over and over in his scarred mind. They took away his pain and made him feel as if he might actually smile at her.

He felt so mellow that when Christine bathed Raouls wounds and put him back into his own bed, ensuring that he was still breathing and in relative comfort, he did not even get particularly angry. He simply helped her carry the great lump to his bed, leaving him there to snore drunkenly, before taking Christine back to her own room and singing her into the sweet release of sleep with all the lullabies he could think of.

His soft voice sang to her of hope, of home, of love and she went to sleep with a content smile on her face. He touched her cheek with a soft hand, feeling her silky skin under his gentle fingertips and shivering as he brushed the glossy texture of her endless thick curls.

"I will be here all night, guarding you, my Christine." He whispered to her. "Then I will be here every night until the end of the world. You will never be left to suffer in silence again, my Christine; that I promise you."

_Hours later..._

It must have been around 2am when Erik saw him. A figure, staggering down the streets drunkenly, meandering mindlessly and tripping over thin air. Clearly intoxicated and out of his wits, Erik knew with blinding certainty that the wretch was in fact Raoul de Chagny. The Vicomtes shiny shoes and rich coat would have made him a target for any back-alley criminal, but Erik found himself grinning maliciously in the darkness as he decided that he would be the lucky man to ruin the Vicomtes night- again.

He had promised Christine that he wouldn't kill the moronic milksop, that much was true, but he had never made any promises about not causing him some more pain. As he sat on the balcony, watching the pathetic Vicomte stagger along and frantically grope the walls for support, Erik decided what he would do to cause that inhumane pig some..._ discomfort_. The dark thoughts gathering in his mind and making him smile evilly were in accordance with his promise to Christine and a promise made to himself as he sat here watching the moon; a promise that Raoul de Chagny would feel agonising pain tonight.

Nadir, being the typical amiable person he was, would not have approved of the images in Erik's head that moment, but then when did Nadir ever truly approve of his rash actions? The thought of the reproachful Persian, who was often Erik's conscience and damage control rolled into one, was not enough to deter him this time; the need to teach Raoul de Chagny the true meaning of evil was too great to ignore.

Erik leapt up silently and swiftly, crossing the length of the balcony in two strides to reach the obliterated French doors that would no doubt cost the Earth to fix- Erik grinned- and quickly slipped inside the bedroom, not prepared to leave Christine unprotected as he went on his little crusade. With a flash of inspiration as he glanced around the gloom of the bedroom, Erik slowly began to push the huge wardrobe over to the ruined French doors. Going at an achingly slow speed so as not to wake Christine, he positioned the huge piece of wooden furniture in front of the ruined doors, breathing hard with the extreme strength needed to get the monstrous wardrobe into position.

After struggling and sweating for a few minutes, the wardrobe was stood in the place of the French doors, blocking the only entrance to the room from the outside. Admiring his skilled placement of the gigantic wooden monstrosity, Erik silently stole out of the bedroom and into the corridor, creeping down a plush carpeted hallway until he found an open window. He eased it open a little further and jumped to the ground, landing with surprising ease.

Silent as a ghost and with the eyes of a cat, Erik made his way through the large courtyard and to the stables, climbing deftly onto the roof to avoid the snarling dogs with dripping fangs that patrolled the grounds silently. He then hopped down onto the empty Parisian street with a satisfied smile, taking a moment to catch his breath before starting to walk the eerie streets. The cobbles glistened in the moonlight, a faint mist rising up from them, and the moon was partially obscured by smothering grey clouds. Had Erik not been practically nocturnal, he knew that he would have felt uneasy. He hoped that Raoul was not too drunk to be immune to this chilling feeling that night time Paris could bring.

As he walked, his feet sometimes coming into contact with puddles and filling the empty silence with the sound, Erik pulled his hat down lower and pulled his cloak up closer to his chin. Hopefully with the darkness and his concealing clothes, the skin coloured mask would go completely unnoticed and Raoul would not recognise him. Erik laughed a little as he realised that what he planned to do to Raoul would hinder his sight anyway; he smiled again at the sadistic thoughts encircling in his brain.

Erik wistfully imagined what it would be like if he were wearing his white mask; how terrified Raoul would be to come face to face with the Opera Ghost, the Phantom whom nearly strangled the life from his worthless body three years ago beneath the Opera. He could imagine the childish terror that would flood Raoul's pitiful face, how he would start to tremble in his expensive finery, how he would try to run and slip on the glistening cobbles...

But Erik could not afford to have the whole of Paris on a manhunt for him yet again, so he soon vanquished the thoughts and focused on the task in hand.

He managed to find the staggering drunkard after a few minutes of purposeful walking through the gloomy streets, tailing him through to a silent, dead part of the city and holding back in the shadows and fog whenever the vile man stopped to vomit in the gutter or catch his ragged breath. As Erik nimbly stepped past the steaming puddles of foul matter that the Vicomte had so repulsively regurgitated, he wondered what made this truly putrid man so irresistible.

Erik soon realised, as he took in the part of the city they were now in, that he was clearly following Raoul on his way to a mistress's house, or perhaps a low-life tavern. Finally at the end of his patience and conscious of the fact that people were bound to be asleep in the cramped houses surrounding them, Erik simply quickened his pace until he came up close behind the Vicomte, reaching out with one hand and prodding him on the shoulder, hard.

Drunken and confused, Raoul spun round and his face smacked straight into Erik's waiting fist with a satisfying crunch, accompanied by a muffled yelp of pain. Raoul tensed and immediately raised his own fist to retaliate, unsure of whom he was being attacked by, but Erik had skill and the anger of seeing his perfect Christine abused by this swine to help him, plus the fact that he was not intoxicated with sense-numbing alcohol. He was unstoppable and the incompetent Vicomte didn't stand a chance.

Erik gripped Raoul by the shoulders, barely feeling the lame kicks and pathetic struggles of the reeking man he held, dragging him to the nearest alley and pressing him firmly against the glistening wall as he fought the urge to be a complete madman and laugh at the situation. He was taller than Raoul, a Great Dane to a Toy Poodle, and so he lifted the snivelling Vicomte off the ground, his legs dangling and thrashing wildly.

"Get your hands off me, you villain!" he slurred and spat in Erik's face, writhing like a man on fire. Erik pointedly wiped the spit off of his face before pinning Raoul's shoulders firmly against the wall again, a grim look of pleasure on his face that was hidden by the darkness.

"Stop whining. You and I both know that it is not I who is the villain here." Erik spat back, disgusted. He was very talented in using his voice, not only as a singer but also to perform tricks, such as mimicking accents, throwing his voice or performing as a ventriloquist. Erik used this ability now, changing his French accent to a mixture of something Oriental and Italian; completely unrecognisable, especially to an incomprehensible twit like the Vicomte.

"Leave me be, you fiend!" he raved again, throwing his threats wildly and without much conviction. "I'll call in my servants to unhand me from your foul grip; that is a promise!"

"Do shut up, de Chagny." Erik growled, shaking the trembling wreck so that his head hit the wall and made him wince in pain. "Your servants are nowhere near here; they are all at home, asleep, not giving any thought to the whereabouts of their idiotic master."

Erik's blunt words seemed to finally make it past whatever thick, drunken haze was clouding Raoul's brain, as he turned pale and his struggles became half-hearted as he seemed to realise it was pointless. The old Erik, dark Erik, would have laughed at how he was now dominant over such a man, but now Erik only found it pathetic. He stifled a bored yawn, watching with a raised eyebrow as Raoul swallowed nervously.

"H-how do you know who I am, you beast?" he demanded in a scarily high pitched squeak and Erik couldn't stop a small smile from darting across his face. He had Raoul de Chagny tight in his grip, and he intended to squeeze hard until he was satisfied. Who knew when that would happen?

As the Vicomte's miserable flailing started to pick up energy again, Erik sighed and fixed his gaze straight into the eyes of the evil, snivelling wreck he held. The struggles stopped immediately, frozen in fright.

"I'm not interested in your celebrity status, de Chagny." Erik said in a bored tone, watching as fear and hope wrestled in the eyes of his victim. "I only desire the answer to one simple question. Will you oblige me?"

"Do I have a choice?" the man mumbled, not daring to meet Erik's glare. He had accepted that his struggles were futile and that only served to make life easier for Erik.

"Oh, you always have a choice, de Chagny." Erik sneered a little, his grip tightening ever so slightly on the man's shoulders. "We all have a choice in whatever we do. What to wear, how we act, _how we treat our wives_."

Erik's hands moved ever so slightly closer to the stinking drunkard's neck, his eyes burning with suppressed fury as Raoul squirmed against the wall, the power of his assailants forceful hands digging in.

"So, de Chagny, my question for you." Erik hissed darkly, the malice in his voice reaching a crescendo as he glared down at the miserable beast with glowing eyes. "Do you treat your wife well? All good, decent men would treat their wives well; especially someone in the gentry like your..._fine_ self. Might I take this opportunity to recommend that you do not lie to me?"

Raoul had clearly not been expecting to be asked such a question. Both eyebrows shot up and his face took on an incredulous expression, his tone becoming stronger and even mocking. Erik gritted his teeth as the smug little idiot held his head up higher and tried to reach the ground again, his feet not even brushing the cobbles.

"I see no reason to reveal such details to you, street dweller, but I can assure your strange mind that my wife is always treated impeccably." He snorted, the patronising tone replacing his drunken slur. It was obvious that he believed he was safe now; that he was in no danger from the attacker gripping him with enough force to shatter puny little bones. "She is precious to me and-"

Erik punched him on the nose. Hard.

Raoul gave a pitiful yelp, blood already cascading down his face in a morbid river, and Erik shook him hard again, his breath ragged as he held back the urge to just kill this insignificant little bug.

"You lie." He hissed again, the words making Raoul's face twist into an angry frown through the pain and the blood, but he didn't let the snob reply. "You've killed her, de Chagny, killed her with your worthless hands and your lowly words. She may look alive to you, but I can assure you that you have brutally murdered everything about who she used to be. You have killed your own wife! Are you proud, de Chagny? Tell me; ARE YOU PROUD?!"

"How dare you!" Raoul exclaimed in a thick voice, the blood in his nose making him sound ill. "Wait- are you the swine who attacked me earlier?!"

Erik gripped his throat again and applied a little pressure, enough to scare him but not enough to kill him, not caring about Raoul's weak accusation. The visions of Christine lying weak and battered on her bed, blood dripping down her face and mingling with tears, flared again inside his mind and his hand twitched and begged to be allowed to strangle the life out of the monster.

"You know, I watched her sing that first night at the Opera Populaire." Erik added, almost conversationally. "She shone that night; she was truly alive and glowing with life. But that sparkle, that happiness that she once possessed...you've killed it."

Erik unleashed the torrent of hate and anger from his body and fired it straight at Raoul with enraged words, feeling better by the second as he finally got to say all the things he had dreamt about saying to this pig. To think, he had given Christine up to this brainless fool... Well aware that Raoul's face was slowly turning a bright red and that his face was contorting with anger, Erik continued to speak his mind, hoping that the Vicomte would boil over and do something rash which would result in 'accidental death'.

"But you don't care, do you?" Erik said icily, not giving Raoul a chance to gurgle out his reply. "And that is the worst part, de Chagny. She is lifeless, feels worthless, broken and you drink and sleep around whilst she waits silently at home for you, bearing your beatings and not saying a word, because she is trapped by your ugly grip. She knows all your faults and she sees how you became a monster before her eyes, and yet she is powerless to say or do anything. She would be better off with you dead."

Raoul suddenly swung his legs up and pushed Erik backwards off of him, falling to the ground and scrambling up to swing a punch at Erik's head. Erik deflected it and sent Raoul crashing backwards with the force, feeling his leg gripped by the Vicomtes hand as he tried to pull him down to the floor. He simply kicked Raoul in the head, stepping backwards with the agility of a cat, flipping Raoul over onto the slushy, muddy streets. As Raoul tried to knock his knees and force him to the ground, he reached out and picked up the foaming de Chagny.

He slammed him back against the wall, breathing hard, his patience wearing thin.

"Don't try that game with me, de Chagny, it won't work." He warned in a sinister voice. But that was when Raoul gave a great shudder and vomited all over the floor, decorating the cobbles and then falling straight into the steaming puddle of his own foul vomit. His head was bleeding, his nose looked broken and Erik could see that he was exhausted, as he began to snore drunkenly where he lay.

It was a truly pitiful sight to behold, which only made it funnier.

Erik found a vomit-free part of his arm and began to drag him through the streets, shaking with silent laughter as he looked up at the moon, which had finally broken through the hazy clouds and was now watching him with gentle eyes, a sympathetic friend.

At last, after an arduous half an hour of dragging the unconscious Vicomte through Paris, the de Chagny gates loomed into view and Erik heaved a sigh of relief. Raoul was a little man, compared to him, but he must have weighed more than Erik with his rich diet. Erik removed the sleeping man's neck tie and used it to bind his hands to the gate, a sadistic need to inflict embarrassment as well as pain making his hands tie the knot and stand back, laughing.

"Next time, my vile friend, it will be death." He murmured, walking away from the slumped body and through the courtyard, climbing the wall and reaching the balcony. There, he swiftly moved the giant wardrobe back into its rightful place and then took a seat on the balcony, resuming the role of guardian angel once more.

He guarded the woman he loved, the woman who actually liked him these days, with a pleased smile on his face, taking the time to glance back over at the hunched figure of Raoul de Chagny tied to a gate and to laugh at him. The night air tasted sweet and he managed to relax a little, bathed in the peaceful moonlight, the nights foul events over at last.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer****: I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Sorry that this chapter has once again taken what feels like an eternity to upload, but again my week has been frantically busy and it has been sunny for the first time in what also feels like an eternity! :-) Excuses, I know, but this chapter is my longest yet so perhaps it will make up for the delay. **

**Thank you to anyone who 'fav-ed', followed, read or reviewed this story. Thank you; Christine Stein, Hugabouv, TMara, Dkk5, Haquikah and icanhearthedrums... WOAH a lot of people! Thank you so much guys! :-) **

**Seventeen- Sing Once Again With Me, Our Strange Duet  
(The Opera Populaire)**

If Paris were a glittering crown, the Opera Populaire would have been the majestic diamond sat right in the centre, putting all the other gems to shame with its sparkles. The night air was warm outside and warmer still inside the already crowded foyer of the Opera Populaire, which was steadily filling up with various people in their finery and jewels. Just one of the many affluent guests journeying to the Opera was Madame de Chagny, who swept through the foyer epitomising elegance, followed closely by a Madame Giry and Monsieur Khan, smiling with the sheer joy of being out and about.

The crowds parted like magic for the much loved Vicomtess, some even calling out greetings and compliments that made her turn pink, but these words only came from the middle class guests. The aristocracy and gentry cast a melancholy air over the joy of the evening, turning away from the Vicomtess as if the mere sight of her made their stomachs turn. Christine, however, ignored their looks for once and strode on, turning to smile at Madame Giry and Nadir behind her.

Christine had perplexed the Opera Populaire's new owners, Thiland and Galley, by declining the offer of the de Chagny box and instead paying for the use of Box 5. She still struggled not to laugh as they approached her now in the crowded foyer, remembering how they had looked completely astounded by her request. The confused owners did not know it, but Christine had a perfectly good reason to pay for a different box; a reason that was kept secret between herself, Nadir, Antoinette and Meg.

Even now, Thiland and Galley's smiles were wry as they greeted her with impeccable manners, kissing hers and Madame Giry's hands, shaking Nadirs.

"Ah, Madame de Chagny, we are most humbled to have the honour of your presence at tonight's performance!" Thiland beamed at her, leading them to Box 5 and showing them their seats with flamboyant gestures. "I cannot express to you my joy that someone who once performed on this very stage and had such an effect would be returning to us, and in Box 5 too!"

"We are so pleased to meet you at last!" Galley chipped in, desperate to share the conversation. "We can assure you that tonight's performance will be breath taking!"

"And I am pleased to meet you both; I adore how you saved this Opera House from ruin." She smiled warmly, true meaning behind her words. The past owners of the Opera Populaire had never even graced her with true warm welcome, even when she was the star bringing in the money, so Christine could not bear to find any fault in these friendly, funny men. It was even better that Thiland was in the musical profession, being a publisher of such things, "I love the decor as well; it complements the atmosphere perfectly!"

The two men practically glowed with the praise from such a woman, who they both held in such high esteems, and Christine had to try and smother the laugh that was fighting to explode from her tightly held mouth.

"We're so glad that you agree, Madame!" Galley bounced up and down on the spot, clearly anxious as to how the performance would go and also ecstatic to receive such praise. "But, so the performers tell me, you tend to see a whole new side to the Opera Populaire when on the stage, and according to them, the new decor is stunning from that perspective. Can we perhaps tempt you to sing for us again, here on the new stage? We would be truly honoured, Madame, truly honoured."

Christine looked at Madame Giry and laughed, knowing that monetary interest lay behind the seemingly polite and praising remark. Despite the fact that she knew this, and that singing on such a stage would no doubt bring back all sorts of horrifying memories, the idea was incredibly tempting. However, she knew that Box 5 just before the performance began was neither the time nor the place to discuss such details, and so she made up her mind to stay firm and decline...for now.

"I'll not commit myself now, Monsieur's." She smiled; taking a seat nearest to the large wooden post that went through the box and continued up to the grand ceiling. "But I must confess that the allure of the stage and your offer does appeal to me. Thank you for all your kindness."

They smiled and bowed again, now turning to Madame Giry with exclamations of delight and surprise, which made Nadir raise an eyebrow at Christine. Feeling like a little girl again, she fought to keep an innocent, reserved face, listening in to the gushes of Thiland and Galley.

"You're Meg Giry's mother! Ah, Madame Giry, we are so pleased to make your acquaintance at long last- your daughter is a wonderful addition to our rather lacking line up, Madame; her voice is that of a happy little angel!" Thiland beamed, kissing Madame Giry's hand. The woman flushed pink, and smiled at the complimentary manager. "I do recall that past owners saying that you were the ballet mistress! What fine work you did, Madame; I recall watching the choreography of the operas and marvelling at your skill!"

"Thank you, Monsieur Thiland." Madame Giry said in a very warm voice, smiling in delight at the praise bestowed upon her and her daughter. "I do believe that my daughter is very talented."

"Indeed, Madame- and such a fine song to sing! It is as if the music was written for her, it sounds so perfect." Galley enthused, peering over the side of the box with excited eyes. "Aha! I do believe that the show will soon begin! Your daughter is finishing the first half, Madame- the best till last applies here, I think!"

The over-excited owners, who were now sweating with nerves and ruining their evening dress, bid the three guests goodbye and dashed down the stairs to greet some other paying customers, whilst Christine settled herself in the comfortable chair and took the time to admire the surroundings. It was indeed beautifully re-done; gold leaf embellishments everywhere she looked, the regal reds balancing out the dark mahogany of the wooden panelling, the new chandelier glittering like a sun as the light caught it at every angle. The box they sat in was the same as it has always been, as only the lower seating and stage had been re-built, so Christine felt a little twist of déjà vu seeing the old colours and decoration of the opera that she had grown up in.

Nadir, sat in his chair comfortably, began to chuckle as he saw how Madame Giry's face was still a little pink from the sudden praise that the owners had thrown at her.

"I'll say this for Thiland and Galley; they certainly know how to compliment their paying guests." Nadir smiled, taking a glass and pouring some deep red wine into it from the bottle provided as Madame Giry tutted and argued that the kind words of the fanatic managers were nothing but the truth.

Christine, however, sat still in her seat and waited. She tried to ignore the heated conversation that was gradually picking up between her two companions and instead stared down at the lights around the vast expanse of stage, staring for so long straight at them that they started to blur and resemble little stars straight out of the night sky. Sat there, feeling strangely alone despite the crowds of people flooding into the seating below, she waited for the fourth member of the party to arrive.

She felt scared and excited at the same time, desperate to see him again and yet still fully aware that he had last properly seen her was when she had been beaten and bloody with only a bed sheet to hide her from his embarrassed eyes, as since then she had been asleep when he came to guard her in the night. There was also the childish worry that had her mentally pacing back and forth, gripping her hands and digging her nails into the arms of the plush chair; what if he didn't come? The bright, sparkling lights of the Opera would deter him, even if it attracted the rest of Paris like moths to flame.

But he had promised her, via Nadir and Madame Giry, that he would be here to watch Meg perform the song he had written, and Christine felt certain that he would honour this. He had to- how else would this scarily powerful feeling of longing for his company ever lessen if he did not come? It scared her, this desperate longing that was slowly taking over her life.

She glanced down at her white gloved hands, resting demurely now in her peacock blue lap. She had chosen the dress herself for once, her hair comfortably pinned and relatively simple compared to the usual styles that had her scalp aching after an hour or so. She had very little jewellery on and she felt comfortable, apart from the fact that her face was heavily made up with countless layers of powder and foundation, her lips dark red to counter balance the rest of the heavy makeup. Even after putting so much on, the bruises were still faintly visible and Christine knew with a sinking heart that when Erik did arrive, they would be the first things he looked at with his wide, sad eyes.

Time dragged on, the twinkly little lights hurting her eyes as she stared down at them, unable to do anything else to pass the idle time. She fidgeted and shifted awkwardly in her seat, the conversation between Nadir and Madame Giry having reached its crescendo, with both participants arguing their point with passion. Christine normally would have laughed, perhaps even joined in just to pass some time, but she felt so nervous that she doubted the words would come out of her mouth.

As she watched the orchestra move around the in pit, the conductor harrying them to set up and check the tuning of each string and note, Christine found another ache; an ache to be on that stage, singing again. The offer made earlier by Thiland and Galley had mixed with her thoughts of being in the Opera Populaire again, making her crave the stage and the lights and the song once more.

She wanted to sing.

"Here you are at long last." Nadirs hissed disparaging tone brought Christine sharply out of her musings, and she turned in surprise to see Erik climbing out of the hollow column, dusting the cobwebs off of his shoulders and coughing a little- he had clearly inhaled three years worth of dust. "Quick, sit down before someone sees that we have managed to acquire an extra guest from goodness knows where!"

Erik raised an eyebrow and gave Nadir a polite shove, before taking a seat next to Christine, feeling a little awkward as he shifted and tried to get comfortable in his old box. It felt good, in ways, to be back in the environment that he had once controlled entirely, but then it also felt horrifyingly unpleasant, as Christine was beside him and not on the stage heavily bruised and yet still looking brilliantly flawless. He saw Antoinette and Nadir's eyes widen as he smiled tentatively at Christine, taking care to ensure that he was partially obscured by shadow, and then he nearly laughed as their jaws dropped in perfect harmony; Christine had just shuffled closer to him, her eyes seeking his in the eerie lighting.

The orchestra began to play the first few strands of rich melody, the string section soaring up and through to the sky as the brass instruments brought a majestic ring to the music, accompanied by the fairy-like flutes. A trio of ladies in gaudy costume danced on, pirouetting and leaping about the stage as the music soared, and Erik turned to Christine with a smile, looking very human.

"It should be you on that stage." He whispered, the darkness somehow removing the awkwardness and letting him talk to her as easily as he would talk to Nadir. He saw the movement on her face that must have been a smile. "Forget the gaudy dresses or the ostentatious stage props; just the orchestra and you, standing solo before them all, singing like an angel."

"No, Erik, don't say that now; it's Meg's turn." She murmured her reply, leaning in closer to him so that she could talk in the quietest of whispers. She could smell the Persian perfumes and darkness again, the smell of Erik, and it struck her that his smell was a relatively new thing for her to experience. Rarely did they ever get close enough to allow her to smell him- only now she thought about it; they had been this close several times recently. "Though I can't pretend that I am not envious."

"Don't be." He replied softly, his voice like silk. "You are perfect, Christine."

Christine truthfully did not know how to reply to such a comment. She fidgeted with all the nervousness of a young woman meeting a suitor for the first time, realising with a flush to her already hot cheeks that he was complimenting her with all the shy desire of an admiring young man. She could not even begin to imagine Erik when he was the same age as Raoul or herself.

"So, did your husband enjoy his night under the stars?"

Christine was pulled violently from her embarrassed thoughts by Erik's amused whisper, feeling a bubble of laughter spill out against her hand as she tried to repress it. How did he know about that...?

"He did look rather fetching, didn't he, tied up with his own neck-tie." Erik continued with an evil grin, sounding a little smug. His eyes were glinting in the relative darkness, like glittering topaz or even the sun itself. "When did they find him, in the end? Was he embarrassed?"

"Erik." Christine reprimanded in a stern voice, though she was desperately trying not to laugh. It had been horrifyingly funny to wake up and find the whole house in uproar simply because her drunken husband had been beaten and tied to the gates with his clothing. His mortified yells and furious red cheeks had been enough to take away all her misery and make her cry with laughter. "I can't believe you! Why did you do that to him?"

On stage, the gaudy dancers were curtseying to the crowd and collected the flowers thrown at them, sashaying off as the orchestra stuck up another well known dance theme. A new collection of girls came leaping onstage, far more elegant than the previous girls. The dancers for this dainty music were in pearlescent whites.

"You don't need to ask me such a question." He replied darkly, turning to watch the performance and Christine's heart sank. Nadir and Antoinette seemed to be far more enthralled by the two people sat in their box rather than the acts on stage, watching them both with large, amazed eyes.

The night went on with relative success, the acts capturing the delight of the watching audience and receiving many cheers and roars for more from those who were intoxicated. Christine caught sight of Thiland and Galley smiling and looking far less agitated in the managerial box, feeling pleased for them that the night was turning out to be such a success. Eventually, after the countless acts and several numbers of beautiful music, the familiar chords for Meg's song sailed up to them and Antoinette tugged Nadir's arm in excitement. Meg came pirouetting on stage, her face alight with a huge beaming smile, her skirts whirling out around her as if she were a fairytale princess.

Her voice was happy and light as she sang the words written for her by Erik, positively glowing as each flawless note resounded around the huge opera house. The audience adored her, hanging on every note with childish delight, though when it came to the final chorus Meg turned and sang her heart out facing Box 5. She looked and sounded like a star.

Christine watched her best friend dance about the stage with warm eyes, though her heart felt icy cold. She watched as Meg delighted the crowds, her blonde hair flowing like a golden waterfall down her back and her dress the plumage of a bird of paradise. She saw how her dearest friend conquered the stage completely unaided and she felt her heart tumble with surprising envy as she hit the final note. The audience were mad for her; clapping and cheering whilst tossing flowers onto the stage, making Meg turn a shade of pink that was visible even from the box.

Of course, Christine clapped until she could no longer feel the palms of her hands, proud and in awe of Meg's performance. As Antoinette stood to applaud her only child with the enthusiasm of the world, Nadir, Erik and Christine all took to their feet and joined her. The sea of sound echoing round the stage and seating resembled a continuous rumble of thunder, thousands of hands praising the work of the blonde soloist.

When Meg was at last ushered from the stage by the ecstatic owners everyone in Box 5 sat down heavily, breathless. Christine felt pitiful and lost, loathing how envious she was, and so without realising it she reached out and grasped Erik's hand like a desperate child. He turned in surprise to look at her, seeing all her emotions in one swift glance, and he gripped her hand tighter.

The interval began and most of the audience went away to have dinner in the Populaire's palatial dining rooms, but the guests of Box 5 remained seated. After a few agonisingly slow minutes, Meg came barrelling into the box in a flurry of golden hair and bright costume, rushing straight into her Mother's embrace. They all clustered around her like moths to a flame, all desperate to unleash rounds of adoring praise onto her.

"Meg, dearest Meg, you were perfect!" Christine beamed, moving in to hug her best friend and squashing all the horrible feelings of jealousy. She suddenly felt seven years old again, feeling Meg tremble with laughter in her embrace. "I could find no fault with your performance except that you were not able to sing in the place of everyone else! You were amazing."

Meg released Christine and kissed her cheek, eyes sparkling a little with tears of joy.

"Christine I cannot express how much your praise means to me; coming from you, the Queen of the Opera Populaire!" she giggled, nearly hysterical, stumbling backwards and straight into Erik. "Erik! Oh my goodness; you came! Did I do your masterpiece any justice?!"

"Oh, yes." He smiled down at her and she suddenly threw her arms around him like an overexcited child, laughing. He touched her hair lightly before stepping back, looking uncomfortable with all the public displays of affection. Meg grinned at him and threw her arms out as she flopped in a terribly unladylike manner into the nearest chair, looking suddenly exhausted.

"That was beautiful, ma petite fille." Antoinette crooned as she stroked Meg's hair and touched her red, sweaty face. Meg smiled up at her mother and thanked her, her eyes drooping a little as she slumped in fatigue. Christine passed her friend a glass of wine, uneasy as she recalled her first performance on the very stage and how she had felt so tired and yet so happy...

"_Oh, tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead."_

_"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child. No emperor received so fair a gift. The angels wept to-night."_

The sound of maddened footsteps and the door to the box being wrenched open by frantic hands roused Christine from her unwanted lapse into the past, making the conversation in the box fall into silence as Erik dove for the column. Everyone waited with baited breath for those drawn out few seconds, when suddenly a red faced and panting Thiland appeared, hunched and clinging onto the very column Erik was hidden inside as he gasped for breath.

"Monsieur Thiland!" Antoinette gasped, offering the man a seat and looking a little confused when he declined it with a shake of his head. "Whatever is the matter, Monsieur?!"

"Madame de Chagny." He panted, making Christine turn to him. He looked wretched and stressed, his hair messy from where his frantic hands had raked through it over and over. "We need you- if you- would- oblige us."

Christine felt her own hand tighten where it lay resting on the back of her chair.

"Of course, Monsieur Thiland." She replied quickly. "What do you need from me?"

"Madame- our next- act- has collapsed backstage." He gasped out, his breathing still ragged. "She was- meant to- finish the show. Would you- please- sing for the- audience- in her place?"

The gasped out words hung in the air of Box 5 ominously. There was complete silence from every guest, all shocked, until both Christine and Meg exclaimed in unison;

"What?!"

Meg immediately flushed a bright, brilliant red, ducking her head and turning away from the manager and her best friend. She bit her lip until she tasted a bead of blood on her tongue, feeling stupid tears prick at her eyes. Christine gaped helplessly, unsure of what to do. She desperately craved the chance to sing again, but Meg was so clearly upset that she had not been asked that Christine felt awful.

She closed her eyes and shut the frantic scene out, trying to think. What would she sing, anyway? The orchestra wouldn't have the music for the songs she still knew to perfection...only one person knew all the songs without the need for a score. But that once person was hiding inside a dusty old column for fear of being seen; how was he supposed to accompany her onstage-?

"I'll do it. I'll help you, Monsieur. I will sing for you." She said suddenly.

She opened her eyes to see Monsieur Thiland grinning like a madman, flapping around like a turkey, raving like a lunatic- but all his happiness seemed insignificant to the wide eyed Meg who was standing forgotten in the shadow of the column, looking torn between happiness and tears. She opened her mouth to say something to her, but then closed it again as she realised that there was nothing to say.

"You will finish the second act, Madame de Chagny; the grand finale!" Thiland gesticulated wildly, nearly bashing Nadir in the face with a wild hand. "If you come down when you are ready then we can arrange the orchestra for you- thank you again, Madame, you have saved the show!"

He left with a slam of the door, and with that sound came the simultaneous release of breath that no-one knew they had been holding. Erik hesitantly came out of the column, brushing the new layer of dust from his clothing and looking cautiously at everyone stood in the silence of the box. Meg took a deep breath and stepped closer again to them all, her face emotionless.

"The final act consisted of two songs originally, Christine." Meg offered the information in a soft voice, reaching out to take her friends arm. "You will need at least that number of songs."

Nadir looked thoughtfully at Christine, as did Antoinette, their faces both frowning in concentration. She went a little pink under their gaze, shifting awkwardly and avoiding their eyes, glancing around her at the Opera Populaire and feeling the familiar leap of her heart within her chest that always came with the anticipation of singing. Of course the nerves were there too, fluttering in her stomach and making her feel unsteady, but the promise of music soothed her.

"You simply must sing the aria you performed that first night; when you took La Carlotta's place." Nadir said firmly, taking a seat again.

"But the orchestra will not have that music." Christine replied in an agitated voice, beginning to pace back and forth in the little free space that the box possessed.

"Who needs an orchestra when you have the world's greatest musician standing beside you?" Meg whispered, glancing at Erik and then Christine before turning away again. "Erik knows the piano part to that song off by heart, I'm sure."

All eyes turned to Erik, who cringed away from their demanding gaze as he threw his arms up, looking irritated. Nadir raised an eyebrow at his friend, asking the question they were all thinking, and Erik gave a curt nod. Christine could feel her heart begin to speed up, throbbing in her chest and making her rush to Erik's side, clutching his hands and imploring him with her eyes.

"Please, Erik, say that you'll play for me." She begged, her voice making him tremble a little and look down at their entwined hands in wonder. "I can't do this without you- I need you."

Antoinette put an arm around her daughter and smiled at Erik, nodding. Christine stared into his golden eyes, the orbs of emotion that danced like fire in the dark of the box, and Nadir swiftly stepped in and grabbed his friend by the collar, taking full advantage of Erik's indecision to drag him out of the box and into the well lit corridor, slamming the door shut with the hope that the sound would rouse Erik from his indecision.

"What are you doing, you oaf?" Nadir demanded, gripping Erik by the shoulders. "You have just been offered the chance of playing the piano for Christine as she sings onstage and yet you stand here gaping like a fish?! _What on Earth did you inhale in that blasted column?!_"

Erik brushed the Persian off of him, gritting his teeth and standing up to his full height so that he could glare down at Nadir with all the venom he now felt building up inside of him.

"To play for Christine onstage may sound like heaven to you, Daroga, but to me it is hell!" He snarled. "In case you forgot, in your crusade to have me killed by a savage Parisian mob, I am wearing a mask. _DO YOU NOT RECALL THAT I WAS ONCE THE OPERA GHOST, DISTINGUISHED BY A MASK AND THE HIDEOUS FACE BENEATH?!"_

"Erik. All I am saying is that you will regret this if you do not take this golden opportunity." Nadir replied icily. "Besides, I'm sure they can conceal a piano in the wings, can they not? You wouldn't even be seen by the audience."

Erik blinked once. Twice. The words seemed to fully sink in and he suddenly gripped Nadir's hand, his face suddenly stretched into a huge smile. Nadir recoiled in terror, fearful that Erik had finally reached insanity, but instead he was brushed aside by Erik, who disappeared back inside Box 5. He came out again a second later followed by a dazed Christine, who implored Nadir for an explanation with a wide eyed glance as she was tugged along the corridor, but Nadir could do little more than shake his head in disbelief. Erik truly was insane. He went back into Box 5 and flopped into a chair, once again exhausted by Erik and his unexplainable mood swings.

Christine ran along the corridor and felt her hair slip out of its loose style, coming free to form a chocolate brown waterfall down her own back. She did not hear the delicate pins hit the floor, but she loved the feel of her hair flying about her face as they tore down the corridor and then through a doorway to a spiral staircase. She was almost giggling in childish delight, clinging onto Erik's hand as they tripped in their haste down the spiral staircase, and he even turned round to smile tentatively at her when she laughed once.

"So I am to sing 'Think of Me'." She said breathlessly to Erik as they hurried down yet another corridor. She was glad for Erik's company; she had forgotten the layout of this mazelike building and would surely have been hopelessly lost if left to her own devices. "But what else?"

Erik knew that the question was rhetorical in the sense that she didn't want him to suggest something. He turned around as they hurried along and caught a glimpse of her frowning face, deep in thought as she listed every song in her mind. He could think of a few that would be heavenly, but it was Christine's choice. He did not interrupt her musings.

"Erik...I have thought of a song that I would dearly love to sing." She said as they slowed to a walk, colour high on her cheeks. He looked at her, his eyes inviting her to tell him, but she looked hesitant; uneasy. "I would...Erik...Erik would you duet with me?"

Erik froze. He felt his throat closing up as he imagined it; the crowd turning sour and fighting to attack him, how Christine would suffer as a consequence- she must have seen the panic in his eyes, because she immediately looked guilty.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "It was a stupid thing to ask. I only-"

"What song?"

"Pardon?" she gasped, unable to comprehend what he had just said. She knew what she thought she had heard, but surely he wouldn't agree to such a stupid request-

"I asked you which song you would like to- to duet with me." He said softly, his eyes lowered. He began to walk again, slowly, and Christine kept pace with him. She recalled the eve of her 17th birthday, sitting in the dark of the chapel in this very opera house, waiting for her Angel of Music to come to her. She remembered how his soft, seductive voice had filled her ears and made her tremble with delight as he had sung that song for her, she singing her own reply to him and then the uplifting rush that had swept her off her feet as their voices combined and became one.

"The song that you sung to me on the eve of my 17th birthday. The song about how you would always be there for me, even if only in my heart..." her voice trailed off as they reached the chaotic rush of backstage. She only had the chance to see him nod before she was pounced upon by Thiland and Galley, who fussed over her in a manner that was starting to irritate her. She hurriedly explained to them that she needed no orchestra, no gaudy dress or ostentatious stage props; she simply required a piano to be hidden in the wings.

The obliged her wishes in stunned silence.

The second half of the show surged on, the sound of the orchestra and the singers clearly audible to both Christine and Erik (who stood hidden in the shadows) as they awaited their entrance in the wings. Christine was focused on listening to the songs, enjoying them as much as she could despite her nerves, but Erik became fixated on something else.

Movement in the rafters above them and the stage- the very rafters where he had killed that dratted Buquet- caught his sharp eyes and Erik instantly became paranoid. Who would be up there now? The performance tonight did not require backdrops or effects from above. Erik frantically searched all of the rafters that he could see from his vantage point, which was not very much at all, instantly afraid that whoever was up there could mean harm. After all, they had not heard or seen the mystery man yet...

Christine felt her heart catch in her throat as Thiland and Galley walked onstage, feeling 17 again as she heard the applause and cheering from the audience. At 17 she had stood in this very spot and awaited her cue to pour out her heart and soul to the Angel in the catacombs; now she would sing with the Angel instead.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm sure you will agree that tonight has brought many dazzling performances to entertain you. But now we present you with an old face to end tonight's splendour in a grand finale! You will remember her stunning out of the blue first performance at this very opera house and the mysterious events regarding her disappearance. We present to you, Ladies and Gentlemen, Christine de Chagny with 'Think of Me'!"

The audience went wild. Christine smiled at Erik and strode out onto the stage, not hearing his plea that she remain backstage. He felt uneasy; worried that whoever was lurking above them meant harm upon her, but he could little more than unhappily take a seat at the piano hidden from sight in the wings.

Christine smiled at the huge audience of cheering Parisian's, glancing up at Box 5 quickly before turning to Erik in the wings. He nodded to her and at once the familiar melody began to fill the stage, filling her, and she opened her mouth and the perfect note fell from her lips with ease.

She had sung often to herself when living with Raoul, but never had she achieved that haunting quality that only ever came when Erik was present. For the whole three years without him she had sung with perfection and beauty but had never been able to reach the same power as before. Now, when Erik was here, she mastered it without a flaw.

She was lost, lost to the melody that the piano wept for her, and as she sang she poured out her soul for the audience and for _him_, feeling the music lift her and bring her back to a world she knew and loved. She felt like Christine Daae again, a girl that she had lost when she married Raoul. She nearly wept as the song came to its dizzying crescendo.

Nerves prickled her neck and made her want to fidget as the applause died down and Erik began to play the second and final song of her repertoire. She still felt unsure as to whether he would actually sing with her but as the haunting melody began to drift across the stage to her, she felt instantly calm. Erik's music always had a soothing effect on her; even when she was a little girl it had ended any worries or fears. His voice always had an even greater effect upon her, so as he hesitantly began to sing his part of the song, she felt a warm smile fall into place. The crowd were instantly silent, though Christine could see the burning desire to see who on earth was singing on each and every one of their faces.

'_No-one else has ever understood me,__  
__No-one will ever see me as you do,__  
__Whilst the other fools scream and despise me,__  
__You always seem to see the truth._

_And as I sit here, wallowing in darkness,__  
__You cause a sweet sensation in my heart,__  
__You always look past the ugly surface,__  
__You always see the light within the dark.'_

The melody became unspeakably sweet, signally her own entrance to the song, and Christine knew with a blinding panic that she could not bring herself to sing the words that meant so little now. Erik was not an Angel of Music; he was a man that had thrown all his own needs aside and had become a guardian angel for her in this turbulent time of fear and doubt. How could she sing the words of an ignorant child to him now when she was a young woman who knew the truth and was no longer afraid to say it? She took a deep breath and then began to sing not the lyrics, but her feelings.

_'The world has treated you cruelly,  
I too have often been blind,  
But still you give your life for me,  
How can I miss what's inside?_

_The surface will never be ugly,  
Your world will never be dark,  
Your music alone can soothe me,  
You have re-built my heart._

_So let me tell you, my Angel,  
Something I cannot ignore,  
You, my friend and saviour,  
Are someone worth living for.'_

'_I will always be here for you,  
I will always be near,  
When the darkness is shrouding you,  
You never need to fear.  
For I will always watch over you,  
Even if we are apart,  
You are entwined within my soul,  
You are always in my heart.'_

They sang the triumphant words of the chorus together, their voices entwined once again with heavenly consequence. The audience cheered louder than Christine had ever heard as the last note rang out and the curtain fell to cries for more. Compliments to Christine and her mysterious partner were filling the air, loud enough to cover the sound of the gunshot that came from the rafters above the stage, fired directly at Christine de Chagny.

But the girl suddenly ran straight off the stage and into the arms of Erik, already sobbing in joy. She had not heard the sound of the bullet that would have killed her had she not moved, too busy embracing her Angel with all her might. But Erik had heard something, so as he savoured the warm embrace of the woman he still adored, he could not help but glance around him with paranoid eyes. Not satisfied with the seemingly empty rafters, he ushered Christine back to Box 5, still feeling the chill of fear prickle his neck. Erik did not often feel fear anymore, having seen many awful things, but he did not like the distinct stab of that very emotion in his heart as he hurried Christine along.

Up in the rafters, concealed from sight, Pierre Le Montier cursed under his breath and lowered the gun. He turned to his brother, Claude, and shoved him hard.

"You said that this would work!" he accused in a venomous voice. "But once again, we have failed! We drugged that other performer to get damned Christine de Chagny on stage and we couldn't even shoot the wretch!"

"Yes, well, it's not you that will have to explain this to the Comte, so stop moaning." Claude shot back, his voice tight with the stress of nearly having killed that poor woman. "Did you see the man she hugged backstage? That was who we think is called Erik."

"Claude, is it just me, or did his face seem odd?" Pierre asked, frowning.

"What do you mean, Pierre?!"

"He looked as if...as if he were wearing a mask."


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi everyone! Here it is; chapter 18! I'm pretty sure that updates will become more regular now, so hopefully that means no more long waits :-) This chapter was so difficult to write and I really should have made Meg a nasty person, because I like her character too much! :-(**

**Anyway, thank you SO MUCH to all the reviewers/followers/'fav-ers'/readers of this story, especially Christine Stein, Hugabouv, Dkk5, TMara and icanhearthedrums who left lovely reviews! Thanks so much guys! And now for the chapter...**

**Eighteen- ****And Who Kept Singing, Desperate For Your Favour  
(The Giry Residence)**

The sky was darkening, the summer sun long gone from the orange evening skies above Paris, and the Eiffel Tower was like a proud giant as it gazed over the city. There were barely any people out on the streets, the cobbles dull in the fading light, and Meg Giry sighed and turned away from the window, which was slightly open and allowing a sweet summer breeze sing its way through the room.

She crossed the small room in two steps and flung herself down onto her creaky bed that still boasted the same old patchwork blanket from her childhood, spreading her arms out so that her hands dangled off the sides of the bed. She stared up at the cracked ceiling, unchanged from her earliest memories of this bedroom, and she closed her eyes.

Downstairs, clustered around the kitchen table like witches around the cauldron, Nadir, Erik and her mother were still raving about yesterday's events at the Opera Populaire- about how Christine had once again captured the hearts of Paris and how the owners had begged on their knees that she might perform for them again. They had been babbling away about this nonsense subject for at least two hours now, and Meg didn't dare go downstairs. She wanted to somehow plunge a burning hot poker into her brain and scald the memories away so that she might forget last night and how she had felt sat in that box, watching Christine-!

Meg hated feeling jealous, but she couldn't stop herself. The envy at seeing her best friend stood on stage, singing effortlessly and enthralling the crowd to the point that they screamed for more...but even that wasn't the real cause of her jealous sulk now.

She remembered how her heart had shattered when Erik's seductive, alluring voice had sung out from the wings of the stage, his masterpiece on the piano floating out alongside it, and she remembered how she had wanted to cry when she heard Christine join the lover's duet, their voices in perfect harmony. It was only worse that the duet had been _that_ duet, the duet that she had sung with him and then argued about. There had been no love between them when they had sung it together, but when Christine sang it out to him onstage...

Meg suddenly shot up and hurled a pillow at the wall, feeling like sobbing. It knocked a picture to the floor with a surprisingly loud crash, but it didn't even make Meg blink. Her blonde hair, usually radiant and angelic, was a tangled mess and the dress she wore was a drab grey. She felt boring and dull and pathetic compared to Christine, inferior to that elegance and beauty in every way possible. She knew, as she sat there and began to cry like a child, that she would never be able to compete with Christine. She never had been able to, even in dancing, and now she felt like such a fool for even trying.

****As she tried to calm herself down, to no avail, someone knocked gently on her closed bedroom door, not waiting for her to invite them in. The door swung open with barely a sound and she looked at the intruder with tears dripping down her face, feeling her heart contract with misery. Why did it have to be him? But it was always him; it always would be him...

"Erik." She groaned and sniffed at the same time, blotting tears with her handkerchief but not managing to stop the constant flow of sadness pouring from her tired eyes. "Please, get out. It is not proper for young ladies to receive men in their bedrooms. Please leave me alone."

"And when do you extend the same courtesy to me?" he asked in a flat voice, offering no pity or sympathy; typical Erik. He never allowed self-pity for anyone, apart from Christine, of course. Meg ground her teeth a little and struggled not to get angry at his bossy demeanour. "Your mother was making a fresh pot of tea and wanted to know if you were going to bless us with your presence anytime soon."

"You sound as if you were my father." Meg glowered at him, seeing a smirk play on his face.

"Well, you are acting like a foolish child, which is not at all like the Meg Giry I know." He replied almost airily, and Meg couldn't help but feel happier when he said her name like that. "Now, stop sulking and tell me why you are sobbing so ridiculously. If we don't hurry then Nadir will eat all the cake."

Meg couldn't associate this Erik, the man who was stood before her now, smirking and joking, with the melancholy recluse who had barely talked to her at first, only interested in his music and pining for Christine. Could something trivial such as playing the piano for Christine really cause such a dramatic transformation...? Meg got up from the bed and shook her head slowly, refusing to flinch away from the glare that he shot at her, one eyebrow raised condescendingly.

She took a hairbrush from the wobbly table beside her bed, savagely brushing the knots and tangles over and over, not daring to look at him again. Instead she caught sight of herself in the mirror and pulled a face; she looked disgusting, her face blotchy and glistening from the tears.

"I am _not_ being ridiculous, Erik!" she protested, near tears again for reasons she certainly didn't know. "I suppose that I am just a little upset for not being good enough for anything."

"Then you _are_ being ridiculous." Erik reasoned, taking a seat on the end of her bed and frowning at her as if she were being an idiot. "Only someone who is ridiculous would say such a thing when they had accomplished what you did yesterday. Stop moping and come downstairs."

"Erik, no!" Meg wailed, not realising quite how pitiful she sounded until she saw Erik smother his laughter, smiling with the effort. "You don't realise- no one realises! Why did she get to sing- why did she get to duet with you?!"

She regretted losing control and saying this, of course, as when Erik smothered yet more laughter it only made her feel worse. She hadn't wanted Erik to know how upset and shattered she felt after hearing the duet, as it would only serve to complicate matters further. She could imagine it now, how she would squirm and flush a painful red as he backed away, scared by her seemingly unexplained possessiveness over him...

"You're jealous?" he asked, amused. The words pulled Meg abruptly from her horrified thoughts, and she looked at him with scared eyes, trapped by the question. "After you delighted the audience so much?"

"I...I'm not jealous of her for singing." Meg tried to explain, struggling to find the right words under the captivating stare of Erik. His eyes had the power to throw her out of control, to confuse everything she thought she knew into a haze of unease. They also made her heart speed up, pounding relentlessly against the bodice of her dress as she lowered her eyes and tried to concentrate on the question. "I feel that...I know that I didn't delight the audience as she did. You gave me my song with a promise that I would shine, and yet...I didn't shine, Erik! I am not able to shine- I am boring and dull and completely unsuited to captivating any sort of audience! And I know that I am being a foolish child but I- this is how I feel, and I cannot help it. There is truly nothing else to be said."

"Then stop sobbing and join us downstairs."

Meg opened her mouth to protest but then closed it again. She had walked, or rather talked her way into that trap, but it had felt so nice to be able to pour every confusing feeling out of her chest and into the open, especially as Erik had stopped his paternal, patronising act. She didn't know how to reply to his abrupt words, finding his slightly angry gaze unsettling as she shifted nervously. Why had he not sung a duet with her onstage?

Because, Meg told herself bitterly, I am not Christine.

"Please, Erik, I don't wish to come downstairs and talk mindless nonsense with you all today- my head hurts and I just want to lie down." She eventually managed to reply, the words shooting out with more venom that she had ever intended. "Go away and leave me!"

"You act like the perfect diva." Erik muttered darkly, his glare now a glower as he headed for the door, his footsteps heavy and irritated as he gnashed his teeth. "Stop being a silly little girl and behave like the perfectly mature young lady you are. You will never please yourself by constantly comparing yourself with others, Meg; it is as futile an exercise as a bird comparing themselves to a fish and then loathing what they find. We are all unique, and thus we all have our qualities and our flaws. No-one is perfect."

Meg burst out laughing at this point, making Erik ball his fists and turn round menacingly, one eyebrow arched as he glared at her. To Meg, he sounded as if he were one of the wise men from the Orient that Nadir loved to quote. Nadir could spew out ancient proverbs all evening if left to his own devices, but often Erik would tell him to stop talking nonsense and an argument would ensue.

"What do you find so apparently amusing?" he demanded.

"Oh, it just seems a little funny that you would suggest that we all have flaws." Meg explained, instantly stopping her laughter. "It would appear that some have only flaws, and that some are perfect."

"Meg, stop it." Erik warned, sounding a little threatening as his golden eyes blazed. "No-one is perfect. I'm sure that where many have flaws, you have only qualities. Stop being such a pessimist."

"But am I being pessimistic, or foolish?" she asked him, challenging him, and he gritted his teeth irritably- Meg felt a little delighted that he was not the stubborn one, for once. "It seems funny that you of all people would suggest that Christine, for example, could have a flaw where I have a quality."

"You would be surprised." Erik murmured his eyes distant. Meg's heart squeezed.

"So, go on then." She pressured him, curious as to what he would dredge up from the back of his mind, or how long it would take him to think of a flaw in the woman he loved. "Enlighten me, Erik. Tell me; where does Meg Giry have a quality that Christine de Chagny does not?"

Meg felt reckless speaking those words, her heart pounding and her tongue going dry in her mouth. She glanced behind her and saw that the night was almost fully dark now, the window more of a mirror than transparent. She assessed Erik's face, saw how his frown was disapproving again and how he looked irritated. But he did not hesitate in giving his answer, which Meg had not anticipated.

"She is scared to defend herself; you are clearly not." He began in a hard, humourless voice, his jaw clenched tightly. "You have a far better taste in men, of course. You are _usually_ very optimistic, whereas she is often sad and reserved- but I suppose that is the consequence of three years of mindless abuse from that disgusting little fop-"

"Listen to yourself, Erik." Meg cut him off in a cold voice, fed up of hearing his awful examples. "You can't bear to criticise her without justification! You say she is scared and unable to protect herself- that simply suggests that she needs protecting, which is not a flaw! To be reserved suggests elegance and poise and- oh, you even justified her pessimism with the excuse of her abusive husband! Can she do no wrong in your eyes?!"

Erik was silent. He could see the colour high on her cheeks, this time due to hysteria and not joy, and so he bit back the truthful reply that he knew would bother the clearly upset young woman further. Of course, to him, Christine could do no wrong; she was perfect in his eyes! He loved everything about her and always would...

"She exposed you before an entire Opera audience, she loathed you, she chose Raoul de fop-face over you and you still love her. She managed to lure you, Master of Shadows and the once feared Opera Ghost- the Phantom- onto the very stage you once terrorised simply to play the piano. You spend each and every night at her window, no matter the weather or climate, simply to ensure that an unlikely disaster doesn't occur." Meg said in a resigned voice, hugging herself. "You must love her so much, Erik."

"I love Christine more than life itself, Meg." He whispered in agreement, fully aware that she would not understand just how much he meant those words. Christine had been the first thing in his life that was remotely good; the first person to bring hope to his life spent in darkness. Even if he had not fallen catastrophically in love with her, he would still have been indebted to her for inadvertently showing him how to live again. She, even as a little girl and his pupil who he cared for like an elder brother, had given him something to live for.

"And such a love cannot be ignored. She will realise and return it, Erik." Meg promised softly, her cornflower blue eyes suddenly pooled with tears, which she blinked away. Oh, how she wished he would just realise how he made her feel... "Just be there for her- that is what she needs right now. A friend."

You are more right than you know, Erik thought bitterly to himself as he recalled the incident with her monster of a husband that night. Stupid, arrogant, disgusting pig.

Meg swung her arms nervously and blew out a small sigh, raising an eyebrow at Erik as she made her way swiftly to the door. Erik stood up and followed her.

"I suppose we had better go down- mother will be wondering where on Earth you are." She admitted, resignation filling the words. She lay a hand down onto the cool door handle, gripping it tightly as she managed a sheepish smile for Erik. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted." He replied with a smug smile.

"There is absolutely no need to look so smug, Erik!" Meg scowled and shoved him hard, making him laugh at her. This only made her angrier. "I am going downstairs because I want to, not because you have whinged and moaned like Nadir on a day where he has had no sleep because of your persistent piano playing!"

"I," Erik said coolly with a wink, "do not whinge."

Meg's heart stuttered and one of her hands flew to her chest. She could feel the erratic thud even through the layers of her clothing. Was he...no, the great, fearsome Opera Ghost would never flirt, would he? Meg looked at him with questioning eyes, desperate to see what truths lay within their golden depth, but he was gazing off into nothing, looking sullen and depressed again. Most probably, he was thinking about Christine.

"Do you miss her, Erik?" she asked quietly, making him jump a mile.

"Who?"

"Christine, you fool. Do you miss her?"

Meg repeated the question sadly, though he didn't seem to hear the distinct melancholy note in her voice. She watched as he gave a heartfelt sigh, looking away into nothing again and balling those elegant black gloved hands into tight fists. He looked distinctly troubled again, and Meg wanted nothing more than to ease his hands open and hold them, looking directly into his eyes and making him feel whole again just with her presence. But that would never happen, for it was not her he craved.

"How can you miss what was never yours, Meg?"

Meg found herself becoming angry, almost as if the question was being directed at her, challenging every feeling that was coursing through her body now. She felt like gripping Erik's shoulders and shaking him, shaking some sense into his deluded mind. Why did he have to focus on Christine all the time- why could he never appreciate the other people around him who cared for him and loved him?!

She turned away from the door, ignoring his exasperated sigh, and stalked off to the window, pressing her nose right up against the ice cold glass in her fight to look out onto the streets through the darkness. Paris was a city that was truly alive- even now in the dark there were carriages and people in the streets, heading to the taverns and the theatres and various other entertainments. Those streets, so often filled to the brim with crowds and carriages and _life_, were the veins of the city, the Parisians themselves the lifeblood.

Without the Parisians, Paris was nothing. The Eiffel Tower may have been the attractive front, the Opera Populaire a source of wonder and the river the source of power for the city, but the ordinary, humdrum Parisians were the soul of the city. As Meg gazed out upon Paris, she felt hurtfully average. She was just another face in the crowd, another Parisian, taking what life gave her and just plodding on. She could try and pretend that she was one of the few glittering gems amongst the Parisian populace, but it would hurt even more when she was brought crashing down to reality in instances such as last night's performance at the Opera Populaire.

Meg only realised just how hard she was pressed against the glass when Erik pulled her back, her nose throbbing with the sudden release of pressure. Her hands flew to her face, feeling the throb of pain beneath her fingertips, and she felt tears spring up. Erik rolled his eyes.

"Really, Meg?" he asked tiredly. "I thought you were prepared to come downstairs-"

But for the first time in her life, Meg Giry had been pushed to the very limit of her patience. Irritated by his patronising words, upset regarding the performance last night, in pain and feeling overwhelmingly confused regarding the very man stood before her, she snapped.

"Leave me alone!" she snarled, shoving him backwards as hard as she could and seeing shock leap across his face. "Can you not hear me? LEAVE ME ALONE!"

As she screamed the words out, feeling her entire body cave in as she hunched over in pain, Antoinette and Nadir came running and burst into the room. They were panting with the sudden exertion of running and their faces were pale with shock taking in the scene before them with horrified eyes. Erik stepped forwards and reached out for Meg, but she suddenly slapped him across the face with such power that his mask- the comfortable white mask- flew across the room. Antoinette let out a cry of shock, Nadir flinching in anticipation of Erik's reaction...but he didn't yell, or fly into a rage. He simply stood there, hideous face exposed to all three of them, and did not react. He lifted one hand again, imploring Meg to calm down. Nadir nearly fainted in the shock of realising that Erik cared more for Meg's wellbeing than his own.

"Meg." He said softly, daring to step forward and touch her face, making her look at him. He looked down into her eyes and saw how she trembled, tears beginning to spurt down her face. She began to shake her head, over and over.

"Don't say my name like that." She choked out, hiccupping and gasping through her tears. "Don't say it as if you care... I can't take this anymore! You're so blind, Erik, so blind that you do not see what is staring you in the face!"

He looked down at her, helpless and unable to stop her from crying, honestly oblivious to what she sobbed about. Nadir gripped the doorframe, gazing on in horror. He had a horrible feeling as to what Meg was upset about and he knew with a sickening dread that this was not going to end well. He tried desperately to meet Erik's eyes, trying to warn him, but the fool was still looking down at Meg.

"Meg, whatever is the matter with you?!" Antoinette demanded, not prepared to pander to her daughters hysterics. "There is absolutely no need for all this ridiculous crying! I suggest that you apologise to Erik immediately!"

"Apologise?" Meg whispered, shuddering as she moved away from Erik's arms. Then, as if she had been kicked into action, she leapt for the sheet music that Erik had given to her, the song that he had written for her, and ripped it into tiny shreds. Then, she grabbed his mask and threw it to the ground, lifting her foot and preparing to crush it.

"Meg Estelle Giry, DON'T YOU DARE!" Antoinette screeched like a banshee, rushing forward only to be restrained by Nadir's arm. He knew that the woman would slap her daughter of she got over there, and Nadir did not think that Meg deserved a slap. She was clearly distraught and had been tipped over the edge, as she was usually such a calm young lady, and he knew that they were all partly to blame for sending Erik to pester her.

Erik still had not reacted. He kept his eyes level with Meg's, and she stared directly back.

"Do you know how it feels, now?" she asked in a whisper, bending to pick up the mask and holding it carefully in her delicate hands, her tears dripping down onto the smooth white. "Do you now know how it feels to watch, helpless, and wish that there was something, anything at all, that you could do to change the situation? Because I am tired, Erik. Tired of living my life in constant competition with Christine, constantly unsure if I will ever win."

Meg passed him back the mask, which he put on wordlessly. She ignored her mother's wrath and Nadir's sad eyes from the doorway, only focused on Erik. If she could pluck up the courage now to tell him, to put this matter to rest at last, then she could leave this behind and try to move on instead of constantly doubting herself.

"What do you mean, Meg?" Antoinette demanded from the doorway, sounding irate and still as if she wanted to slap her daughter. "What competition could you possibly mean?!"

"It's silly, it really is. But then I am silly; I am foolish and immature and so often I cannot help but laugh at the world, but now I want to laugh at myself." She said, her voice getting louder as the courage made her more determined. "Erik-Erik, I find myself in a situation now that is breaking my heart. I wish that I could change how I feel, change the stirrings in my chest as I speak these words, but I can't."

"Meg-"

"No." She cut him off firmly, sobs over as she faced him with all the severity of a mature young woman. "Everywhere I look, anywhere I go, all I see and hear and feel is you. You're somehow stuck in my heart and though I am fond of Edouard- Erik, you have my heart in your grip and you crush it with each word you say. You are unlike any man I have ever and will ever meet and I...I love every part of you, everything about you. I dream of you finding the happiness you deserve with your Christine, and yet I feel as though I am slowly being crushed each time you light up at her name."

Antoinette made a noise of disapproval under her breath as she swayed uneasily on her feet, Nadir sensing that if Meg continued with this rather sudden declaration that the woman would faint. He watched in complete despair as Meg walked up to Erik, standing barely an inch apart, and he saw Erik tense as Meg hesitantly touched his cheek.

"This is hard for me to admit, Erik, so I beg that you indulge me and allow me to get everything I have hidden for so long out." She said calmly, though the calm exterior was crumbling. Nadir turned away; unable to watch what he knew would be a disaster. "But we are the same, Erik. We both hide our true selves from the world and we can both see the beauty that lies underneath an exterior. You have uncovered me, Erik, you have seen the real girl inside Meg Giry and I love you for it."

With that, she reached out and pushed the mask from his face, stepping in and kissing him. Her lips softly met his own and she laid a cool hand against the deformed side of his face, feeling him freeze in the shock. She closed her eyes and savoured the feel and taste of his soft lips, ignoring how he was so tense or how her mother gasped in outrage.

Meg knew that she was disastrously in love with this man; a love that felt passionate and dark and thrilling. She has never felt this way before for anyone, yet she also knew that she would never be happy unless Erik was with his true love; Christine. It was a horrifying tangle of emotions that she had dared not even admit to herself until pushed to the very edge of her self-control, and now she had crossed a line that would never let her go back. She broke off the kiss and stepped away from him, lowering her eyes.

"I hate to ask, because I know the answer." Meg said softly, hiding behind a curtain of glimmering blonde hair. She felt her cheeks go pink as she heard her mother mutter something about inappropriate conversations, but she could not stop now. Once this was out, it would be over at long last. "But if Christine did not exist...would simple Meg Giry, with all her flaws, ever be enough?"

Erik's hands clenched into fists again and his eyes squeezed shut with the anguish. Meg waited with bated breath, but deflated as Erik turned and fled from the room, unable to completely crush the poor girl with his answer, which he knew would upset her. Meg nodded once the door slammed shut, lifting her eyes from the floor and looking directly at her mother, who was also looking pale and exhausted.

"I'm glad he said that. It means that I've done the right thing, at last."

"Meg?" Antoinette slowly made her way over to her daughter, her voice anxious as she cupped her daughter's cheek with old yet strong hands. "What do you mean, my little Meg?"

"Edouard proposed to me this morning." She explained quietly, no excitement or joy in her voice as she announced the news. "His family live in Switzerland and he wishes to move there with me to be married. I've said yes."

With these last few words she knelt on the floor, sobbing at her mother's feet, who bent down and cradled her daughter close. Meg couldn't contain it any longer. She was to marry a man she didn't truly love in order to escape a man she did- it was breaking her.

"Meg, if you don't want to marry Edouard I'll not let you!" Antoinette exclaimed. "You silly girl!" You do not have to marry anyone!"

"Please, mother, just leave me to make the decision myself." She said softly. "I want to lie down now. Please can you leave me alone?"

Her mother kissed the top of her head with tears on her cheeks, before Nadir took her arm and led her out of the door. He wondered if he should say something on Erik's behalf, but there was nothing to be said. It wasn't as if mere words could change anything- unrequited love was always cruel. Meg was being brave by confronting Erik, ridding herself of doubt and moving on. Nadir closed the door silently.

In the morning, when Antoinette went upstairs to sit with her daughter, she found only a note left on the bed.

'_I have eloped with Edouard to Switzerland, to be married. I am sorry to leave you like this but you would have stopped me. Tell Erik that I am sorry._

_Forgive me,_

_Meg.'_

For the first time in his long, sad life, playing the piano did not stop Erik's tears.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all, another update is here! Chapter 18 was so difficult to write and this chapter is bound to be equally difficult; more sad drama I'm afraid! Please remember after you have read this and want to kill me (lol) that this story is all pre-written and this chapter is about half-way through; :-) **

**Soooo... thank you very much to all the reviewers; a Guest, TMara, icanhearthedrums and Haquikah. Reviews are always very much appreciated :-) Now onto Chapter Nineteen...**

**Nineteen- Love Is Not Always Beautiful  
(de Chagny Townhouse, Vicomtess' Bedroom)**

After the vibrant peak of summer, where children played in the streets at night and when the gardens of rich homes bloomed with colour and heavenly perfumes, came darkness. As the heat seeped out of the Paris streets, so did the laughter and the joy. The alleyways were barren, the markets forgotten and autumn came with a bitter, biting wind that tore at the defenceless cobbles as it blew rubbish and dirt through the streets.

Even autumn, with its cold rain and howling winds that chilled the few brave pedestrians to the bone as they battled it's persistence, quickly gave in to the majestic, icy grip of winter. Night and darkness fell sooner each cold day and with the first snowfall of winter came a letter.

Christine de Chagny sat by the French doors of her balcony watching the fat, soft flakes of snow plummet down from the matt black of the sky, her hands fiddling with the letter as she gave a sad sigh. She could see, from her windows, the glowing beacon of the Opera Populaire, the warmth of the lights drawing the cold inside and making the snow around it glint as if it were a layer of crushed diamonds. She had sung on that stage several times through the wet and the wind of autumn, the exhilaration of singing again making the dull days tolerable. But now, as everything was plunged into the deathly winter, she had nothing.

Nothing apart from this letter- and Erik, of course. But Erik came only at night, when she could barely see a foot in front of her face and all she wanted to do was curl up beneath the warm folds of blanket and sleep the night away. She would fight to stay awake, though she often lost the battle with her heavy lids, but when she did conquer the weariness Erik could hardly offer much in the ways of excitement. They often would be reduced to discussing something or other, usually irrelevant and occasionally interesting. A few rare nights, that stood out in Christine's memories like stars, they had sung together in whispers on the balcony, serenading the moon together as Erik helped her to perfect her voice again- three years of no singing had made her a little rusty in certain elements.

But even on those nights of singing, the daytime was still lonely, cold and dull. Raoul's sisters had all left Paris now with their husbands, not that they would have made pleasant company for her anyway, and with Meg gone there was now no-one even close to her age to talk to, let alone to have fun with. She hid in her room from the raging Comte, who would glare whenever she dared look at him, and she found herself missing Raoul terribly. She sighed again, looking down at the letter held in her smooth hands, tracing his handwriting with one hesitant fingertip. She felt so guilty for missing him after all he had done, but she could not help her heart. As if to prove her point, it squeezed sympathetically as she read over the warm words of the letter again.

'_Whilst it is raining as I write to you, the air is still mild. I expect that in Paris the snow has already begun to fall- that cannot be beneficial to your health. Business is still successful and I have secured a partnership that I hope will last for all of my lifetime, hopefully longer. There is a beautiful house not a mile from the coast, with huge gardens that bloom roses in the summer time and there is a large lake that becomes so warm you can swim in it. Does this tempt you, my love? Now that business is settled, the South can be our home, if you so wish-'_

Christine stopped herself from re-reading it yet again, pushing it firmly back into the weighty envelope and putting it back on top of her dressing table, trying to forget that it was even there amongst the glittering gems and creamy pearls littered across the wood. The idea of sunshine, warm rays of sunshine that lit up water and made it sparkle or made her slip into a dreamy sate of bliss, had her flinging herself back onto her bed and throwing her arms out, wistful. Here, in Paris, she was slowly becoming a night creature and she didn't like it. It scared her; the anger and hatred towards the day that Erik had shown her was not a mindset she cared for. She needed the sun; it was the only constant in her life.

Christine lay there for what felt like years and in that time spent staring straight up at the ceiling, Erik did not arrive. Sometimes he did arrive later than usual, if he was busy helping Nadir or prowling the streets for the mystery man who had not reappeared for a staggeringly long time now. Feeling the weariness beginning to take its toll, she gave in to her drooping lids and pulled the covers over her, cocooned in warmth and soon sleeping peacefully.

Soon after this, Erik arrived at the balcony, swinging himself up with practised ease and glancing in on her, seeing her asleep. He knew from past times that the French doors would be unlocked, open for him to sit in the warmth, but he could see the purple bruise of exhaustion beneath her closed eyes even from outside, so he decided to remain on the balcony for fear of waking her.

Erik took out a book and brushed some painfully cold snow from a wrought iron chair provided for him, settling down to read and attempting to ignore the sting of each snowflake as it kissed his exposed cheek. The snow was falling heavily, turning Paris from a grey nightmare into a glittering wonderland at an alarming rate, the moon casting a watchful eye over him as he nearly dozed off. He shivered a little, trying not to think about how cold he in fact was, and so stood up and stamped his feet to warm up.

His breath was visible in this biting cold, a sight that very nearly plunged him back into the painful memories of that first winter with the gypsies. Whilst they had all huddled round and huge bonfire, covered with scratchy blankets and drinking steaming cups of various alcoholic substances, he had been left in only ripped trousers, his cage far enough away from the main camp that none of the bonfires heat had reached him. He remembered that one scrap of sacking that he had desperately huddled into, though it had done nothing for him, and he recalled how his mottled blue legs had gone completely numb, looking like slabs of blue cheese.

Erik shuddered the memory away. He had been young then, very young- younger than 4 years old. How he survived that night he did not know, or indeed how he had survived his masters idea of fun the next morning; to tip a bucket of water that had iced up straight over his barely clothed body. Erik was not scared of much now, having conquered most of his previous fears through suffering them, but he would always be uncomfortable in freezing cold temperatures. Fire did not scare him at all, but the thought of being left out in the freezing cold to die made him tremble.

The hours dragged on tediously, each minute lasting a lifetime in the snow. Erik paced to and fro in the short space relentlessly, looking into the bedroom each time he passed. Each time he saw the same scene of Christine asleep, the room in darkness. But then, past midnight, Erik glanced into the room as he paced and saw a beam of light.

He immediately dashed out of sight, fearful that it was a maid who would see him when she came to close the curtains or to do some other habitual task, but when he peered cautiously into the room again- taking care to keep well out of sight- he saw the door close silently, the light gone. He scanned the room quickly, making sure that it was only Christine inside now, and having confirmed this he opened the French doors and stole inside, silently. He was wide awake now, drowsiness gone, and he felt a bubble of paranoia burst inside him. He wished that he had Nadir with him now, to keep watch of one door whilst he watched the other. For Erik was sure that the person who had opened her door and looked inside was a man; he had been in trousers, and Erik had a distinct suspicion that it was the Comte who had peered into the room so oddly.

He didn't know why the Comte would behave so oddly, which made him doubt his own assumptions, but Erik had seen the slight limp of that treacherous old man before. He crept to the dark corner of the room, luckily being the corner closest to Christine's bed, and he waited. Tension prickled the back of his neck and he loathed it, twitching nervously in the dark. He held his breath, sinister precognition making him tense like a cat ready to pounce on the unsuspecting mouse. Only this time, Erik felt as if _he_ was the mouse and he didn't appreciate the feeling at all.

The door, not the French doors but the thick oak door inside the bedroom that met the corridor outside, gave the smallest creak, making Erik's eyes lock onto it. It began to ease open, painfully slowly, a little beam of light stretching about a metre into the room from a small lamp. Into this light, a foot trod cautiously. Erik could barely breathe; who on Earth was this?! And why was he coming into Christine's bedroom-?!

Suddenly the adrenaline began to course through his veins as Erik realised the threat, suddenly leaping out of the dark and onto the bed just as he saw a flash of metal- a gun! He grabbed Christine and pulled her roughly to the floor, tumbling down and hitting the ground as the roar of a bullet exploded from the gun and hit the pillow where her head had been not a second ago. As Erik felt his mind begin to race, his heart pounding as he prepared to attack this villain, Christine's wide brown eyes flew open, petrified. But Erik could not stay to comfort her; he sprung up like a cat and leapt at the gunman, snarling in fury as he knocked him to the floor.

The unknown man gave a grunt of surprise, falling down like a stone as Erik gripped his ankle and smashed him to the floor again and again. He felt a wave of déjà vu as he reached for the candlestick, ready to beat this villain senseless, lifting it and waving it in the man's face.

"_Tell me who you are and who ordered this attack, and I will only disfigure that tainted face of yours!" _he snarled. _"But if you refuse to obey me, I will make sure that no-one can recognise you when they find you lying here, mangled and drenched in your own disgusting blood! NOW ANSWER ME!"_

But Erik, in all his rage, had forgotten that the man had a gun. He wrenched an arm free and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet and searing pain straight through Erik's shoulder, and he let go of the man in the sudden unexpected pain. He let out a desperate cry of agony which soon turned to rage as he tried to chase and apprehend the gunman again, but he had already leapt out of the window recklessly and was now escaping through the streets of Paris, unhurt and free.

Erik writhed a little in the pain, feeling the blood already soaking his shirt and the pain making him feel as if he might vomit any second. He had the sense though, even in the burning pain, to force himself up and to lock the door, as the gunshot was bound to bring people running. He somehow managed to lock the door and pocket the key, turning round and staggering back over to where Christine was still sprawled on the floor. Her frantic eyes met his and then drifted to look at his chest, where the blood from his shoulder had already bloomed across the white of his shirt. The iron stench was so strong, Erik could taste it.

"Angel! Dear God, what-!" Christine suddenly burst out, on the verge of a screaming breakdown. Erik immediately smashed a bloodied hand against her distraught mouth, stopping the hysterical screams or sobs from escaping into the silent room. He felt her breath against his hand, making him shiver a little, but he was in so much pain from the bullet that he could do little more than stand there, imploring her silence with his eyes that swam with tears of pain.

"Don't make a sound." He whispered, his breathing harsh and ragged with the pain he was trying to ignore. "Get dressed, pack some essentials and then we're going. I don't know where, but you are not staying in this blasted place a second longer!"

Christine seemed to gain the strength to move again. She got up hesitantly, stumbling a little, and she wordlessly began to fill one bag with clothes and her few possessions- despite being a Vicomtess, Christine owned very little. Most of her belongings had been passed down through the de Chagny family over the generations, so she could not claim any possession over them. Erik watched her with frantic eyes, looking round the room every few seconds and wishing that she could pack just that little bit faster. He felt his eye twitching with the stress of the moment, which didn't help his concentration.

Christine had just reached for her letter and pocketed it when suddenly an impatient fist banged on the door. The sinister sound reverberated around the room and made both hers and Erik's hearts stop as they turned, with stricken eyes, to face one another. Erik took two silent steps over to her, grasping her hand and then edging slowly over to the French doors, the pain in his shoulder suddenly overridden with the uncertainty of what was going to happen now. This person, the person knocking on the door, could be a simple maid or the assassin himself; they would not be able to get inside with the door locked, but if they alerted someone to break it down...

Erik could taste blood again, feeling sick as he gripped onto Christine's cold hand with all his might, fighting not to just jump from the balcony and get her out of this hell-hole right now. He could feel her trembling, her body pressed close to his as she cowered away from the door, and when he looked down at her he saw the glistening tear tracks on her cheeks.

"Christine?!" came a voice from behind the locked door. Christine froze; it was the Comte! She opened her mouth, but Erik shook his head vehemently, forcing her to snap her mouth closed. She felt his hand tighten on hers, as if he were restraining himself from doing something. What on Earth was the Comte doing outside her bedroom door at this hour, anyway?

"It would seem that Pierre has done it, Monsieur le Comte." Another man's voice, low and dull. "She is dead."

Christine felt ice freeze up her veins. Pierre?! Who was Pierre?! And why was the Comte ensuring that she- Christine suddenly felt so dense. Her legs wobbled worryingly and she staggered back against Erik, who hissed a little as his shoulder jarred but he caught her all the same.

"You certainly took your time!" The Comte growled, sounding irritable. Christine knew that when he spoke in that voice his eyes would glitter maliciously, filling everyone else with a cold dread. The Comte was a powerful man, there was no doubting the fact, but Christine often wondered what would happen if someone was not scared by him. "Well don't stand there gawping at me- do you want to be caught?! Get out, and I will pretend to have found her in the morning. I will take a few things from her room, so that it would seem to be a robbery. Let no-one see you and your brother leaving, though!"

"I will ensure this, Monsieur. Er...and the money?"

"I will send it on in good time, Le Montier! Just get out!"

"Yes, my apologies, Monsieur."

The conversation ended abruptly, with the sound of departing footsteps telling them that the two men had at last gone away from the door. Erik was tensed painfully with a building rage that he was desperately struggling to control, dark images of himself running down that corridor and strangling the Comte to death far too satisfying. But then a small sound interrupted his dark musings- a sound he hadn't truly heard for over ten years. It was the sound of crying- heartbroken crying that had stirred him, the bitter Phantom, to call out to a weeping child. Christine had cried often in his presence- bitter tears, tears of hate, loud sobs as she protested against life...but this soft, broken weeping had only met his ears once before; the night that he had called out to her in the Chapel.

He turned his instantly agonised eyes to her own, seeing the face of her seven-year-old self in them, which made _him_ want to start crying. She looked frightened and vulnerable, but Erik knew that he would not let anything happen to her. He would kill anyone that tried- and he was itching with the desire to go and kill the Comte and that Le Montier person right now.

"Raoul's father wants to kill me, Erik- my own family." She whispered. Erik didn't know why she sounded so horrified; the de Chagny's were a ruthless clan of bloodthirsty, egotistical monsters who would often stop at nothing to get their own way. He was not at all surprised, only angry.

"Come on, Christine, we need to leave this stinking place." Erik tried to reason with her, but she wouldn't stop talking, as if she had been hypnotised. "Besides, the Comte is bound to tell everyone that you're dead when he can't find your body; your family will not now that you are alive. If we disappear now, we can get out of Paris and reveal that you are alive and well once everything has calmed down, if you wish it."

"But Raoul will re-marry!" she began to cry again, and Erik froze. Why did she care if that stupid fop re-married? After all he had done to her, after all the pain he had inflicted with his selfish ways, why did she still care?! Erik's shoulder began to burn again and he felt himself slump, losing the energy to keep standing. "I can't do this- I can't! I can't sing, I can't be with the man I love, I can't experience joy, I can't be with anybody for fear of endangering them too-!"

Erik cut her off by raising an eyebrow, ignoring the fact that she had just claimed to still love that greasy little Vicomte. She stared at him with desperate eyes and then Erik knew that he would do anything for her- even if it meant eventually re-uniting her with her beloved fop. He loved her with all his heart- so much so that she was a weakness that would make him walk through fire, or jump from a bridge or even run a dagger through his own heart just to make her happy. Erik knew this, but he still felt angry to hear her say that she loved the abusing Raoul!

"You can be with someone; you _will_ be with someone." He said quietly, yet with a finality that made Christine stop crying. "As if I would leave you now, when you need someone! And I am sorry that you feel that you will suffer with other problems, but Christine...I will provide for you. If we run away now we can find somewhere that you will not have to live in fear of abuse or the twisted rules of the aristocracy! We will have to bring Nadir, else the old fool with never forgive me, but I can take you wherever you wish to go! I have money- plenty of money. We can see the world and sing and...and... we will always have each other. I would never desert you, Christine, never in my life! All you need to do is say the word and I-"

"No."

Erik's declaration, the words he had longed to say, dried up in his mouth. The silence seemed to grow and grow, making his ears hurt, and his mouth gaped a little in disbelief.

"What?" he whispered, seeing her turn her head away from him.

"I said no, Erik." Christine sounded upset, but that wasn't good enough for Erik. He felt anger and hurt swirl inside his head as he kept his eyes locked on her, willing her to turn around and face him instead of cowering like a child, fearful of his wrath.

Christine bit her lip, feeling tears fill her eyes. She didn't know what was right or wrong anymore- whether she was being an idiot to still love a man who had abused her so cruelly or whether she was insane for being tempted by Erik's offer. She knew that she should hate him for the past, but she could never hate him, even though she had tried to so many times. All she could truly decipher in this fog of confusion was that with Erik there would only ever be night- and Christine knew that she did not want to live in constant night. Gathering all her courage, she turned to face him, and instantly felt awful when she saw the pain in his facial expression.

"Erik, you have to appreciate that I am married to Raoul. He has written to me recently to say that business is settled and that he has made us a permanent home in the South of France." She tried to explain, as gently as she could, but her words seemed to have the subtlety of a hammer on Erik. "I was going to tell you, but I didn't think that you would understand."

"What is there that I will not understand about your sham of a marriage to that vile little slime ball?!" Erik demanded in a forceful whisper, aware that they were still in the townhouse and that someone could hear and come running any second. "Because as far as I am aware, your marriage is one of abuse, neglect and fear, Christine, and believe me; I understand those things perfectly well!"

"Erik, this is exactly what I mean!" she protested, making Erik clench his jaw and curl his hands into threatening fists, though he did not mean to intimidate her. "I know that you scorn everything and you discard things that you do not believe in, but my marriage is as real as anyone else's. I am married to Raoul, a bond that cannot be broken whenever I please, and the point of marriage is that we suffer together and celebrate together."

"You seem to forget, Christine, that it is only you that ever suffers!" Erik said triumphantly, sure that he had made the final point, but she did not even falter.

"I love him, Erik." She said quietly, meekly. Erik wanted to shake some sense into her- how could she love him?! "I love my husband, even though he can be cruel at times, and I am going to go to him. He can protect me from the Comte, and he will care for me. Your offer is a kind one, Erik, but you will only ever live in night. I hate to say these words, as they sound so cruel...but you are not right for me. I need to be with the man I love, who loves me back."

Erik couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He was surprised that he was still breathing, or that his heart was still thudding away inside his chest. How could she- Erik didn't even want to think it anymore. He stood there, looking at her sad eyes, and he realised that he had deluded himself into imagining that she was falling in love with him. But she wasn't- she never would. It was a painful prospect, to imagine life without her again, but it would all too soon be a reality that Erik knew he would have to live through until he died. This time she had made her choice even with him being good and kind, and that was that. He would need to be strong, stronger than before, if he had any hope of leaving her alone to live the life that she so obviously craved without him. She had kissed him that night, that sweet moonlit night, but it all meant nothing. Erik felt his knees buckle beneath him and he fought to stand upright.

"You realise that this is the end of our relationship, whatever it is, don't you Christine?" he asked in a hollow voice. "Because I will not follow you to the South, I will not keep watching over you when you are with your husband. You will be on your own, should he ever leave you."

"But-" she protested, then stopped. "Don't turn this on me, Erik! You don't think that this is difficult for me?"

"Oh, I am certain that this is difficult for you, Christine." Erik nearly snarled with the irritation building. "But I have feelings, Christine. Though this face may look devoid of all human emotion, I feel every bit as much as you do. But remember, _Vicomtess_, that it is you who kissed me that night, and ever since that night I had begun to hope that maybe, just maybe, you were finally seeing me as a human being, not just a pathetic creature who is willing to guard you and pander to your every need!"

Christine opened her mouth, ready to launch back in with another argument, but Erik silenced her with a look. He felt insane; perhaps he looked it to, as she seemed paler now, looking at him warily.

"And then you claim that you must be with Raoul because he is a man who loves you in return." Erik said, almost as if to himself. He laughed, cynically. "All this time, Christine, I have been hoping that one day my catastrophic love for you would be returned. And I understand, of course, that you would never even consider loving a disgusting wretch like me, but I cannot take it anymore Christine. I love you with all my heart, I love you so much that I would do anything for you- but my hopes are once again obliterated. I don't know why I even bothered to dream."

Christine did not answer him. She looked stunned, tears rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her clasped hands as if she was oblivious to them. Erik's anger began to fade as he watched her, the frustration of her stupidity over now, replaced with only sadness that once again he had been trumped by the abusing husband. That alone was enough to make him bitter, that his repugnant face was so hideous that a beating husband was preferable over him.

"Come on. I will take you to Madame Giry's, so that you may leave for the South in the morning." He said dully, picking her up into his arms despite her weak protests. He ignored the screaming pain in his shoulder as he lifted her and then jumped from the balcony, helping her through the darkness and out onto the Parisian streets. The moon was hidden; the snowfall over, and the only sound as they walked through the streets was the crunching of fresh snow beneath their feet.

When they reached Antoinette's home they were cold and exhausted, Erik's gun-wound still oozing blood which he could feel trickling down his arm, warm and yet sinister. He put down Christine's bag on the steps and turned to face her, his anger completely gone. Christine's own temper seemed to have disappeared into the winter air, so when she met his gaze she blushed and looked away.

"Thank you, Christine, for not hating me." He said softly, the words nearly carried away by the winter wind. But she heard him; she looked up at him. "That is all I can ever hope to achieve and I know that. I let you go the first time for a reason, and this will be the last time. I...I have enjoyed your company and you should know that you saved me from a dark place in my life. Thank you for giving me your music and- I wish you the best."

Erik did not know why he then took the mask from his face, but when he saw Christine flinch as her eyes met the deformity that had ruined his life; he knew that he was doing the right thing. He reached out with one hand to touch her glossy curls and her soft, cold face before snatching it back again.

"This hideous beast that you see before you will love you with all his wretched heart until the day he dies." He whispered, his head feeling faint though he was sure that this was due to the blood loss from his untreated gun wound. "My Christine...I love you."

She fell to her knees in the icy cold snow, her dark hair a blot on the glittering expanse of snow, and Erik fled the house and ran through the streets of Paris until he fell to the cold floor, crying too much to go on. He crawled through the glistening white, leaving a smear of red blood as he went, his mask back on his face but not set comfortably. He made it, crawling on sodden hands and knees that went numb in the snow, to Nadir's home. He staggered inside, feeling his head spin, before passing out from the blood-loss.

Christine de Chagny sat in the snow until dawn, unable to move or get the courage to go inside and tell Madame Giry what she had done. She couldn't face it. So when the sun finally rose, she picked herself up and went out to find a carriage, intending to leave for the South and never return to Paris again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi all! So I didn't get any death threats about the last chapter (yaaaaay!) but it seems that Christine did not escape your wrath! I must admit, I couldn't agree more with what you are all saying... :-) So now we enter into a part of the story that focuses on Erik and Nadir again, with some OC's coming up in a few chapters time. **

**So many nice people left reviews! Yay! Thank you so much to; pegasus-fics, Hugabouv, Oliver Grey, FunkyBubble14, Haquikah, icanhearthedrums, TMara, KitKat, a Guest and MusicOfTheNight98... woah so many people! Reviews are always appreciated... it's funny to hear your opinion of Christine... :-)**

**Twenty- Let Hopes Pass, Let Dreams Pass, Let Them Die.  
(In a small town in Switzerland, in April)**

The carriage jostled and jolted, the horses not caring for the passengers being rattled around inside like dried beans in a baby's rattle, and the driver merely rolled his eyes and muttered something insulting under his breath as a muffled yell of pain came from the carriage behind him. He didn't even want to imagine what was going on back there, already annoyed that the man with the odd looking face had been rude and that the little, older man had tried to knock down the price of the trip.

"Stupid Frenchmen." He muttered again, urging the big horses onwards with an infuriated sigh.

Erik, inside the carriage, screwed up the stupid blanket and hurled it at Nadir's head, his desire to pelt the harmless cloth at the Persian making him hurt his arm, which still felt tender after all this time from the gunshot wound. He gritted his teeth and glowered at Nadir, who sat back in his seat rather smugly, simply pushing the blanket to the floor.

"I am not an old man, Khan; you do not need to cover my knees with this scratchy, flea ridden thing whenever I close my eyes for two seconds!" he bellowed, making Nadir splutter with laughter. "If anything, it is you who needs a blanket, considering that you are far older than me!"

"Now, now, calm down Erik." Nadir chided, purposefully exaggerating his perfected patronising tone just to make Erik boil with rage. "I don't know why you're so offended by it; it's just a blanket."

Erik opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again; knowing all too well that the long stream of profanities that would have come sailing quite happily from his mouth would have offended the old prude. He instead turned and looked out of the carriage window, gratified to see the idyllic scenery again. He adored the Swiss countryside; lush green fields, huge glittering lakes, snow capped mountains and little towns straight out of fairytales, enough to move any composer to create beautiful music. At the thought of music and composing, Erik instantly became irritated again and turned away from the stunning view, trying not to unleash verbal hell onto Nadir again.

This morning, when it was still dark, Erik had been rudely awoken by a persistent Nadir- so persistent, in fact, that Erik's punches of protest did not deter him. He had been dragged from the warmth of his bed, forced into clothes and then Nadir had propelled him straight into a carriage without once explaining what on Earth had possessed him to be such an idiot so early in the morning.

There had been hell to pay in the carriage when they reached the French border, Erik gripping Nadir by the shirt and warning him that if he didn't explain himself that he would be taking an unwanted swim in Lake Geneva when they returned home. But Nadir's explanation had made Erik so angry that he had resorted to stony silence, refusing to talk to the Persian despite his pleas and reasoning.

"Erik, don't be so melodramatic!" he had whinged like a two-year-old. "What did you expect me to do? It's not as if it's a bad thing- think of all the benefits! Now everyone will celebrate your music; I thought that you would be happy about it!"

Erik stared down again at the copy of 'Music of the Night' that Nadir had purchased, once again flicking through the stiff new pages and marvelling at how the black stave and notation for his songs, his compositions, was all there. Nadir had taken advantage of Erik's brief hospitalisation, sifting through everything Erik owned to fish out all the completed pieces of music that he could find before sending them off to Monsieur Jean Thiland. Pieces sent off for publication included his songs of hate, sadness, desperation and love; private pieces that he hadn't wanted the whole world to have access to!

The countless horrors that Nadir had unleashed on him like the brainless fool he was did not end there; Nadir had teasingly dedicated the book; 'To Nadir, Antoinette and Meg; my three pillars'. So now did he not only have all the feelings in his heart on display for the world, he also was associated with a stupidly sentimental dedication! The only good thing Nadir had done for him was to change the publishing name to 'Monsieur Compositeur' rather than 'Erik, the Phantom' or whatever name Nadir would have dreamt up. Erik wondered, in his sulk, whether he should confiscate Nadirs potions and pipes, as the fumes from all his concoctions were obviously having detrimental effects on his ability to judge whether an idea was appropriate or not!

He would never admit it for the world, but as the carriage drew up outside their destination, Erik did feel a little guilty for being so negative towards Nadir. He had saved his life when he had collapsed from blood-loss that night (though his use of a knitting needle had caused excessive pain) and he had even gone so far as to wash away the blood trail left in the snow. He had organised transport, collected Madame Giry, found out where they needed to go and the whole time he really had been a pillar of strength.

"Come on." He growled at Nadir, striding up the path to the front door of the of the Barreau household, home to Edouard, Meg and now Henri Barreau, who they had been staying with ever since their moonlight flit from Paris. The house was picturesque; situated in a small village that was not too far from Lake Geneva. It was an old house, having been in the Barreau family for generations, and Erik could not have wished for better for Meg. He had feared, at first, that being with the girl again would inflict unnecessary pain on her, but she had been delighted to see him again and appeared to be perfectly happy with her husband and baby boy, who had been born very recently.

Even now, when Meg opened the door to Erik's impatient knock, she greeted him with a full beaming smile and began to laugh hysterically when she saw the book in Erik's tight grasp, her cheeks going pink. Erik couldn't be angry at her, so he found himself laughing along, which disgruntled Nadir rather satisfyingly.

"So Nadir finally plucked up the courage to show you?" she asked as they all walked through the house and out again into the large garden, filled with dozens of bright flowers in every colour under the sun. It would be madness to expect anything else in a garden belonging to Meg. Erik spied Pandora dozing in the sunshine, her kittens play fighting and exploring the plant jungles.

"You mean- you knew about this?!" Erik demanded, sentimental musings well and truly over as he gaped in outrage at both Meg and Nadir.

"Of course I knew!" Meg laughed, picking a flower and tucking the stem inside his mask, just to irritate him further, grinning. "We all knew! In fact, we all placed bets on whether Nadir would really put that dedication in as he promised he would..."

"Oh. He did." Erik gritted his teeth and glared at them both, inducing hysterical laughter which he tried to ignore, as he could feel a smile playing on his face. "And I hope that this Monsieur Thiland man will return the original copies of all my music in pristine condition."

"They have probably already been returned to my address in Paris." Nadir shrugged, and Erik shook him by the shoulders, hating the blasé attitude that Nadir always resumed when it came to his music. No-one ever seemed to understand that to him, music was the one thing in life that he could enjoy and flourish in, always. No-one would ever be able to take it away from him.

Meg excused herself with a grin to find her mother and tell the story, and Nadir watched as Erik took a seat in the vibrant garden and stared off into the distance with wistful eyes. Nadir felt unbelievably sad as he watched Erik staring into nothing, knowing with sickening clarity that he would be thinking about Christine and the dreadful night that had crushed him back in winter. Erik never spoke of that night; he refused to tell Nadir exactly what had occurred, only saying that 'the assassin tried to shoot her, I rescued her and she made the same choice as before'. Nadir knew that so much pain was hidden by those casual words, a pain that made his blood boil and made him want to slap the ungrateful diva for all she had done to his poor friend.

For the first month after that dreadful night, Nadir had feared the worst. He kept expecting Erik to fall back into the same depression that he had suffered from three- no, now four whole years ago. He waited for the attempted suicide, the random murder victim, the crying fits, and the insanity. He had waited and barely slept a wink for that whole month, but the depression never came. It was as if Erik had purged himself of anything at all to do with Christine; his emotions, his memories, his worry for her- Nadir didn't know whether this was right or not, but he was proud of Erik. He hadn't even killed the Le Montier brothers, realising that they were pawns of the vile Comte, but he had beaten them to a bloody pulp. He had tried to kill the Comte, sneaking back to Paris when he thought that Nadir wouldn't notice, but the Comte was far too well guarded for Erik to be able to kill him. Nadir was, in honesty, pleased about this; it meant that Erik was innocent, making him a better man than the Comte would ever be.

Nadir sighed and turned away from Erik. He wondered, in that brief moment, how that ninny Christine was getting on. He hoped, in a way that was completely out of character for him, that she was suffering more than ever before. Not that he cared enough to go and check; Nadir simply wanted to imagine the spoilt hag regretting all the pain she had inflicted. That would be enough, as Erik was getting on just fine, so it seemed. But then, who knew what Erik was capable of hiding from everyone else? Nadir didn't want to even think about it.

Erik, who had been gloomily contemplating what Christine was doing as he sat there in silence, was roused from his state of sadness by the sound of a baby mewling and snuffling. The sound made his heart leap and his face his lit up as he turned in his seat to see Meg coming towards them cradling baby Henri, closely followed by Antoinette.

"Look, Henri!" Meg stage whispered to her little boy, passing him over to Erik, who instantly felt happier. "It's Erik!"

Erik smiled down at the completely defenceless little baby, who batted his little fists in the air and stared at him in wonder, his little face slightly wrinkled with curiosity. Erik had found a surprising amount on comfort in Henri, singing all sorts of lullabies to the little infant and being delighted by the fact that Henri seemed to like it. Meg had commented to Nadir about how good Erik was with Henri the first time he had ever held him, and Nadir hadn't known how to reply. Erik had never even entertained the idea of being a father, knowing that he would never find a wife as he would only ever love Christine, so where this sudden paternal instinct came from remained a mystery.

Meg knew that cradling little Henri gave Erik some peace from his tormented thoughts, and with Edouard away all the time and she worked off her feet, she encouraged Erik in being the Uncle figure to Henri. Nadir would have been another Uncle figure, but he made no secret of feeling uncomfortable around small creatures that wailed, so the sought after role of babysitter was battled out between Antoinette and Erik when Meg was busy.

"Hello Henri." Erik spoke to the baby in a very different voice; Nadir would have teased him about it if he hadn't been scared to. The overly cheery baby voice that Erik addressed the infant with was so at odds with his dark persona that it was quite fascinating to watch. "You would never have joined forces with block-head Nadir to publish my music, would you? Would you?"

The little baby seemed to smile a little, though it was probably just a figment of Erik's delighted mind. Nadir grumbled from somewhere behind him, and Erik turned round to grin at him, looking smug.

"So you see, Nadir, a two week old baby has more sense than you do when it comes to matters concerning me and my music." He said a little haughtily, smirking as Nadir stuck out his tongue in a childish manner, provoking Meg to laugh and Antoinette to tut and roll her eyes at them both.

"Please, please, don't start another argument!" Antoinette chided, smiling wryly as she held out her arms for the baby. "Please pass my Grandson to me, Erik."

Erik surrendered the baby reluctantly, shoving Nadir into the shrubs as he stood up and gave the seat to Antoinette. They began to bicker childishly, calling one another the most ridiculous of names, until Antoinette and Meg turned round and told them to be quiet. All eyes were suddenly fixated on Henri, who was now sleeping peacefully, until Nadir muttered something about expecting such adoration from females, but not from the Opera Ghost himself. Erik dragged the Persian back into the house with him, feeling the urge for more childish anger bubbling beneath his skin. Once inside, he doused Nadir with the repugnant water of a flowerpot and subsequently forced the Persian into going and having a bath.

Erik sighed, the end of the fun and games making him lapse back into mental sadness as he slowly made his way for the parlour and the piano sat inside, his heart sinking a little as he thought once again of Christine. He barely thought of her these days, trying to forget she even existed and hoping that closure would go hand in hand with the sad necessity of forgetting her.

He lifted the lid of the piano, uncovering the beautiful expanse of keys that were just screaming out to be played, and then he lifted the lid that hid the strings of the piano, fishing around inside until he found what he wanted. A wad of paper, extremely thick and weighty, that was in fact his opera. He spread out the scores he wanted to work on across the piano, taking a seat and quickly playing through the luxuriously tragic melody as he tried to remember the idea that had come to him earlier that day. He stopped playing suddenly, the melody cut short and silenced, and he scribbled down the notes he had dreamt up in that arduously long carriage ride.

He had been working on this opera since they had left Paris, scribbling out the basic story as he lay in his hospital bed and then writing the music once they arrived here, in Switzerland. Considering the effect that his last opera, Don Juan Triumphant, had caused at the Populaire, this opera could hardly do worse. He surveyed the striking black notes spread across the open canvas of the stave, feeling pleasantly satisfied with how the music was unfolding so far.

This opera, unlike Don Juan, was a tragic tale of unrequited love. Based on the myth of the Angel of Music, the Opera old the story of a similar angel who defied his purpose by falling in love with a mortal girl. He was cast out of heaven and banished to Earth, where he took it upon himself to guard the girl and care for her. However, the girl falls in love with another mortal and the angel can do nothing to stop her from marrying the man.

Erik's first draft had taken the same dark route of Don Juan in the sense that he made the angel kill everyone he saw in a jealous rage, symbolising how love and hate are not so different after all, but when Antoinette had heard him explaining this to a sceptical Meg, she had pointed out that to kill everyone is not particularly angelic, or an action that would have the audience pitying the angel.

Though infuriated and a little annoyed by this, Erik had taken the killing out of it and replaced it with several melancholy arias instead, which had already reduced Meg and Antoinette to tears when they had listened to them. Mollified by their praise, Erik had worked endlessly up until this part of the music, where he had met a dead end to his ideas. Now, though, he had decided what the ending would be to this tragic tale; the angel would die of heartbreak.

Erik knew that everyone in the house could tell that this opera was based upon the events that had occurred between him and Christine, but he didn't care. It was laughable, writing this opera and remembering back to when he had honestly believed that she would be the one to look past the ugly exterior, to see the human man within. The desperation for his hopes to become reality just once in his life had fuelled the jealous rage that had lead to many deaths and disasters, which made Erik question himself. Had he truly thought that Christine Daae would fall in love with him?

He remembered the dark nights in the chapel, talking to her through the wall and seeing the tears on her face glisten in the moon and candle light. She had told him many fairytales through the years of conversation, all the stories of princesses and handsome princes rescuing them from the ugly beasts, who would all perish in their loneliness whilst the prince and princess married and ruled a fairytale kingdom, together forever. The ugly beast never won, never achieved the sought after happy ending. Had he never realised this, all those years ago?

Erik decided that he didn't care anymore. If his life were a book, he would rip out the pages that contained Christine Daae or de Chagny or whatever she was called and burn them, but he couldn't do that. If he were alone, Erik would have a reason to worry, but he had good friends who would help him suffer through this, even if they didn't realise that they were helping. He felt at ease compared to how he had felt that night- he shivered as he remembered her stricken face, or how he had fallen into the snow, crying too hard to go on. He would live without her- he had to.

Erik looked at the opera spread out before him, and at the growing pile of music sheets that sat on top of the piano. All he needed to do was finish this opera and find someone willing to put it onstage. He had no other dreams or hopes now that she was forever gone from his life.

Meanwhile, in the South of France, Christine de Chagny closed her eyes against the glare of the sun and felt content as she lay back in the soft green grass of the palatial gardens, hearing birds singing and water trickling delicately from the water feature nearby. The sun was hot and kind against her skin and the scent of the flowers blooming around her made her feel comfortably sleepy.

She adored the sun; basking in the golden rays as she stretched out like a cat and felt the suns warm kiss along her arms, her legs and her face. The sun was a guard who never left her; here in the day, inside her mind at night. And then there was Raoul, who was pleased to have her home again.

She enjoyed her life in this house. The servants were kind and friendly, the few other aristocrats happy to spend time with her and the joys of the gardens and the nearby coast still fascinating to her, even though she had been there since winter. Christine felt a girlish laugh escape her mouth, pealing up to the flawless blue of the open skies. She was happy here; she had everything she had craved when in Paris. But there was still that ache.

The ache had begun when she stepped off of the train and into her husband's arms, like the coward she was. She had told herself that the ache was the emotional stress from the assassination attempt- which she did not tell Raoul about, for a reason she did not really understand- but the ache did not dull or leave her when Raoul embraced her. In fact, it had intensified.

The ache had practically ripped her in two when, shopping in the town, she had seen a bookshop hailing a new musical publication named 'Music of the Night'. Driven by the confusion she felt, and knowing by the pieces within just who the composer was, she had purchased that book and once returned home had tried to sing one of the pieces, to see if by doing so the ache lessened. But it didn't- she had been violently ill, the ache twisting her stomach and making her fall to her knees, as she had done in the snow on that dreadful night that she did not want to recall.

Christine got up from the grass and began to pace listlessly, walking barefoot and stopping by the edge of the lake so that she could stand in the cold, clear water. The icy shock of it did not make her feel any better, and when she looked down at her reflection in the water she found herself loathing how weak she was. She stepped out of the water and strode onto the plants, passing the rose bushes which had yet to bloom. They were her favourite flower and she could hardly wait for the day that they would flourish, filling the garden with their heavenly scent. She had spent hours sat amongst them, trying to guess which would boast pink roses, or yellow, or white, or orange.

But she hoped that there would be no red. The idea alone would make the ache increase.

Christine walked round the rose bushes and came out through a glade of trees, seeing the island in the far corner of the lake, which had a beautiful stone summer house on it. She and Raoul had gone and sat together in that summer house many times, she nearly dying from the happiness of the new romance between herself and her husband. It was all going to be alright- it had to be.

Erik would never have understood this; she told herself firmly, he is better off without me just as I am better off with Raoul. He is a tormented man whom I pitied. I didn't love him...no. Pity. It was just pity.

Part of Christine, the weak part, wished that she still imagined him to be dead. It was so much easier that way. A cruel part wished that he really was dead.

Christine saw two people out on the island, holding hands and coming out of the summer house together. One male, one female. The female of the pair turned round and kissed the male, and he lifted her up and swung her around. Christine peered through the sunlight, trying to see- then she froze. It was Raoul and her new friend, Aurélie. Kissing.

Christine turned away, feeling like such a fool. Part of her wished that _she_ was dead.


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello again! Sorry it's been a week, I was very busy doing a work experience thing-y so had no time to upload anything- but now I have plenty of time! This chapter is not so much action, but a lot of explanation and setting the scene for the next chapter, in which I have some OC's :-). **

**But before the chapter, I have to say WOW. THANK YOU SO MUCH REVIEWERS/READERS! Over 100 reviews... never thought that would happen! So here's a COLOSSAL thank you to the awesome; pegasus-fics, TMara, Haquikah, Filhound, icanhearthedrums, You Are Love, KitKat, Tangosalsa and Dkk5! You all left lovely reviews, so thank you so much!**

**Onto the next chapter...**

**Twenty One- Living A Mere Facade Of Life  
(In a Swiss Opera House)**

The vast expanse of darkened stage was empty, aside from one actor, stood facing the hundreds of silent people, sat watching him with fascination. The few lights in the auditorium were small and delicate, catching the various items ostentatious jewellery throughout the audience and sending kaleidoscopic sparkles into the dark. From the depths of the orchestra pit, a solo violin wept 16 bars of melancholy heaven, hovering poignantly on the last, tearful note. The actor lifted his head, stepping out into the only light on the stage. The audience waited.

"So often we tell of love." The actor spoke, his voice projecting out and echoing through the dead silence of the enthralled audience. "But so often we see love as something that it is not. What other emotion has the power to rip our hearts into shreds in seconds, or to lift us up to taste the dizzying elation before plummeting us back down into the ominous depths of despair? What other emotion leaves such pain in its wake, or controls the souls of so many all at one time? None other than love. If you doubt this truth, then I ask you to listen to the tale of the Angel, who fell in love with a mortal and defied those who warned him against such a foolish act. The Angel surrendered his ethereal seat in the heavens, losing everything, and came to Earth to guard the woman who had stolen his heart. He gave her everything he possessed, including the music of the heavens, and she discarded him."

The audience murmured amongst themselves as the actor threw his arms up, facing them with wide, dramatic eyes. They had not been expecting one solitary actor to tell them a morbid fairytale- where was the opera?! But the actor, having already been warned by the composer himself that the speech might cause some controversy within the vast audience, was not deterred.

"The woman did not love the Angel- she quite happily married another mortal as the Angel wept bitter tears at her feet. As she waltzed away from him, into the arms of another man, the Angel felt his heart shatter within his chest. As his tears hit the ground, the despair overcame him and he died, heartbroken. Could there be a more tragic tale? And what can be blamed for the death of that heartbroken wretch? The facade of love. There are no lovers; just fools. There is no love; only illusion. There is only heartbreak and pain for the fools drawn in under the facade of love."

The actor slunk backwards into the darkness of the wings as the orchestra began the music for the first song; the Angels solo, the song that spoke of being in love. Erik looked down at the soloist on the stage, feeling very odd as the strains of melody met his ears. Nadir tugged his arm in the fashion of an annoying child, so Erik turned to face him in the dark of the pokey box, his eyes slits of fury.

"What now, Khan?!" he hissed irritably, wanting to listen to the music rather than suffer yet more of Nadir's mindless drivel, having already endured well over an hour's worth in the carriage and when waiting for the opera to begin. "And if you're about to make another worthless comment on the attire of the performers, I wouldn't bother. It's not as if I chose for him to be wearing that ridiculous silk shirt-"

"I was only about to compliment you." Nadir sniffed, earning a laugh from Meg, who quickly smothered it for fear of Erik's wrath. "The music fills the auditorium perfectly; as if you wrote it with that in mind."

"I _did_ write it with that in mind, you raving fool!" Erik nearly roared with anger, remembering to whisper the insult instead so as not to disturb the solo, which had now finished and was receiving adoring applause from the audience. "I was hardly going to compose an entire opera that would sound best in Meg's parlour!"

Before a real argument could pick up between the two, Antoinette lightly slapped them both around the head. Edouard had been left at home with little Henri, who everyone agreed was far too young to come out to the opera for the night, so everyone in the party of four was experiencing odd twinges of déjà vu. Erik wasn't sure whether it was pleasant or just too similar to the days of summer spent in Paris, hunting for a mystery man and devising strategies around Antoinette's kitchen table. He recoiled instantly from the memories, well aware that he was already dreading the scene of his opera where the Angel would be discarded by the mortal girl. Erik had given no-one names in the opera either, for fear of turning his emotional outlet into a dramatised piece of rubbish, but now he wished that he had. For if the mortal girl had been called Anne or Colette or anything at all, then he would not be sat staring at the scene and thinking _Christine_ whenever the female actress sang.

It was satisfying to see his dark creation spread out before him upon the stage. And whilst many aspects, such as the overzealous facial expressions or the hideous costumes, were not as Erik has envisaged them, it hardly mattered. As the Angel and the mortal girl met and sang together, Erik felt tears well up in his ears, which he hastily blinked away before eagle-eyed Nadir or curious Meg could catch a glimpse. For it was not the actor and actress he was crying over; it was himself, his pitiful existence and the memory of how he and Christine had sung together just like that.

Stealing a quick glance at his companions, Erik was gratified and a little humbled to see Meg leaning forward, enthralled by the opera; Antoinette wiping her streaming eyes with a lace handkerchief; Nadir frowning in concentration and then also the countless other members of the audience who were already crying. It was bittersweet to see his opera bring such emotion, for Erik knew that if the Angel was ugly and deformed no one would have been crying.

This opera had been intended for the stage of the Opera Populaire, where Erik had meticulously planned to dramatically reveal himself as the Opera Ghost onstage and then kill himself before their eyes, sick of living and knowing full well that life without Christine was not going to be pleasant. Not when he had dared to hope that she had been falling in love with him...Erik cursed himself again for ever being such a brainless fool. His plan had been somewhat ruined by the fact that they were in Switzerland, not France, and also with the burning determination to be strong and prove that he, the pathetic, ugly Erik could live without the need for that hurtful woman. Of course, Nadir would have probably somehow managed to stop the suicide with some harebrained heroics that would have got them both killed by an angry mob, so Erik didn't feel too daunted by the prospect of forcing himself to live.

He, with Nadir's surprisingly willing help, had decided that in order to live, he would need something to work at; something to live for. With that decision came an idea that had sparked excitement within him, a feeling that did not occur often in his drab and miserable existence. Erik had loved England when he had visited with Nadir on their travels, London especially having inspired him to compose and to create despite the heartbreak. As England had proved such a success last time, it was now where Erik intended to go.

The plans had already been made and set, despite the bitter protests of Meg on behalf of herself and Henri. But Antoinette had been more than fully supportive, berating Meg for what she deemed as being selfish when she should have been congratulating him for the idea.

"After all, what could possibly hold you back now? Especially when you will flourish and create brilliance, as you always do." She had smiled, before shooting Meg a hard look, turning the girl red in the face. "And besides, it is not as if you will be alone; Nadir can help you."

"But you can't go!" Meg had then tried to plead with him again, sounding distraught. "What about Henri? You love Henri, and he will not remember you if you leave when he is still so young!"

Meg's argument had very nearly made Erik change his mind, as it was true that the adorable little boy was his only real weakness. He didn't want to leave the child, having become so attached to him and wanting to play a prominent part in his life, but with what he intended to do he would be helping hopefully hundreds of people in London. And, Erik consoled himself even now, you can always visit them.

"I promise to visit." He had replied eventually to the disgruntled Meg, and the memory of how she had looked positively seething with anger still made him struggle not to laugh sat watching his melancholy opera unfold before him. "Or I shall pay for your passage to England so that you may come to visit me and the Black Rose Opera House, London."

Erik shifted a little and settled back in his seat. Using the money from his and Nadirs three year voyage, Erik had purchased a small collection of crumbling buildings in a poor area of London, with the intent to turn them into his own Opera House, with lodgings for himself, Nadir and the employees that he would take on. The sales of his music were generating enough money to fund the project, but Erik planned to create far more money from ticket sales once the Black Rose was fully operational, leaving it self sufficient and paying good wages to the employees. He planned to employ the poor and the undesirables, just how a few of the ballerinas at the Populaire had come from poverty. He would tutor them and teach them to sing, write music for their voices and then he would pay them a good wage, in the hope that being a good employer might make him feel a little less the evil monster he had previously been.

As far as he was aware, the building was quite close to completion, due to the number of men that Erik had been able to employ, and interest was building within London itself. Erik could almost taste the sweetness of his excitement; anticipating the joys of laying his past to rest and flourishing as a fair employer and owner of a hopefully successful Opera House in London. Antoinette had been thrilled at the motives behind this somewhat risky venture, and Erik could recall how she had practically glowed as she beamed at him.

"What you are going to do is wonderful! Truly astonishing, Erik!" she had smiled and hugged him in a sisterly manner, her eyes sparkling a little with a few motherly tears. "You will change the lives of so many people...I can't think of the last time I heard of someone planning to perform such an act of good for anyone!"

"But you don't need to go off on this crazed crusade!" Meg had snapped back, still adamant that Erik should stay despite hearing all his plans for being a fair employer to hopefully hundreds of Londoners. "You are doing plenty of good here; you're being a friend, an Uncle of sorts to Henri and you're alive, Erik! That is enough good for anyone- please don't lose yourself in some unnecessary attempt to put your past wrongs right. You have redeemed yourself already, I can assure you!"

Erik was drawn slowly out of his lazy thoughts by the familiar strains of melody, the tears of music that he had laboured and wept over through endless nights sat at the piano simply unable to put the melody to the paper, unable to accept it. He watched, his face expressionless as his heart thudded mournfully as if in sympathy, and he heard the Angel's dying words.

"_I am dying...of love. That is how it is...I loved her so! And I love her still... and I am dying of love for her, I tell you..."_

And then the solo violin rose up again, solitary and sweet as the melody reached out for the audience and drifted slowly until it began to hover again on that last note. The curtain came down silently, a mask of heavy red fabric, and this action spurred the roaring applause from the audience and caused Nadir to slap Erik hard on the back, babbling on again with congratulatory nonsense.

"That was breathtaking!" Meg exclaimed, leaping up to hug Erik. He felt a twinge of guilt when he embraced her like this, remembering that day not so long ago where she had screamed at him that she could take the pain no longer. But Meg didn't seem bothered; she let him go only to giggle and prod his arm playfully. "Why didn't you do something like that sooner, Monsieur Compositeur?!"

"Never mind that, let's just be glad that he finally did unleash his brilliance on the world!" Antoinette kissed Erik on the cheek, adding her calm aura to the elation threatening to turn into crazed hysteria amongst Erik's three companions. "That truly was marvellous, Erik. I cannot fault it, accept in that you did not play the part of the Angel; your voice is ten times better than the actor's was. But never mind; let us get out of this boiling opera house and home to Henri!"

Meg and Antoinette hurried out of the box, still chatting avidly about the Opera, but Nadir and Erik remained inside the pokey little box, which smelt very musty and was not at all up to the palatial Box 5 at the Opera Populaire. Nadir quickly checked that the two females had headed off down the corridor, out of earshot, and then he and Erik turned and walked in the opposite direction to them, finding a small spiral staircase and then using a back door to escape outside into the night. It was June, but the snow capped mountains remained, as did the clear, glittering expanse of sky. The stars winked at Nadir and Erik as they made their way through the silent streets, knowing that by now Antoinette and Meg were bound to have realised their disappearance.

Erik looked around him at this snowy, quiet part of the world. He had grown to love it; that was undisputable. The lush greenery and glittering snow were things he had never been able to appreciate until now, and he found himself delighting in trivial matters such as the scenery or the taste of cool, fresh air that had not been polluted by the rubbish and sewage of the city. As a child, the only fresh air he had experienced had been ruined by the fact that as a gypsy slave he was always kept outside in the cold, so the fresh air lost its appeal. The dank and dark catacombs beneath the opera had never held fresh air in their existence...

Nadir eventually saw the inn they had stabled their horses at so as to keep this midnight flit a secret, hiding their bags in the stalls as well to avoid suspicion from Meg or Antoinette. Nadir's horse, a slightly fat and short little thing, tried to nuzzle the tall, black, proud stallion that was Erik's mount and received a kick for its efforts, causing it to snort in protest. Erik nearly burst out laughing seeing Nadir once again scrutinise that dopey, affectionate little horse that he was destined to ride.

"Well, I suppose I had better be serious for once and tell you that your opera was brilliant, Erik." Nadir commented as they both tied their luggage to their horses. His tone was slightly teasing, but his message was sincere. Erik felt oddly pleased by the praise, though he wouldn't admit it for the world. "You've certainly penned a masterpiece, a best-seller!"

"Of course it is a masterpiece; _I _wrote it." Erik retorted easily, comfortable with the knowledge that Nadir knew he was not really that big-headed. Whilst it was true that he was proud of what he had penned and composed and was happy with the response, he was not ecstatic about it. It was still just a show, despite its stimulus of true events.

Nadir simply laughed. He foraged for a brandy flask amongst all his rubbish that he was carting around, finding it and showing Erik as if it were a priceless artefact. Erik merely raised an eyebrow as Nadir took a large swig and refused it when offered. He had never taken to alcohol, disliking the stench that it caused and the behaviour it induced; his old master and fop-face sprung to mind. Nadir took another large swig before strapping the tiny bottle to his belt and reaching out to pat his horse on the shoulder. It tried to eat his coat, so Erik mounted his imperious looking horse and waited for the Persian to stop fighting with the dopey animal, rolling his eyes to the glittering sky and wondering why he was constantly in the company of the old buffoon.

"So you're certain that you want to leave now, without saying a proper goodbye to Meg and Antoinette, even little Henri?" Nadir asked, a little out of breath from the struggle with his wretched horse, who was now looking rather pleased with itself as it stood chewing a piece of coat.

"No, Daroga, it is better this way." Erik sighed, feeling suddenly very old and very sad, even though he was neither in truth. Meg was bound to plead for him to stay again if they said goodbye, or use Henri to make him feel guilty. But Erik did not want to stay living in someone else's house at the charity of someone else anymore. He wanted to work, and create, and _live_.

"Daroga?!" Nadir blinked in surprise. "You haven't called me that in...well, in a long time. Hm. Well if you're sure that you don't want to say goodbye...you might regret it, Erik."

"Shut up, Khan." Erik gritted his teeth, fed up with Nadir's paternal fussing, which was extremely patronising not to mention aggravating. "Now, are you going to mount that animal or yours, or are you going to walk all the way to the North coast of France?!"

Nadir pulled a face of protest at Erik, but did not say a word. Instead, he mounted his horse and both he and Erik eased the animals into a peaceful trot, their hooves sounding against the cobbles in such a manner that was extremely pleasing to hear. It was a rhythmical sound, like the thrum of a heartbeat or the steady, soft beat of the percussion within the orchestra- Erik would have closed his eyes to savour the sound, had he not been riding. They took the horses through the town and then set off along a dirt track, taking the opportunity to speed up now that they were out of civilisation. Endless nights of travel in the past had given both Erik and Nadir nocturnal vision and they rode with ease through the dark, feeling even better that they were on horseback with a gun each. Erik was all set to flat out gallop once they cleared some trees, but he felt Nadir grip his arm.

"What now, Nadir?" he complained, irritably, slowing his horse to match Nadir's, which was doing considerably well despite the difference in height and temperament to Erik's proud stallion. "We really can't slow down to chatter away about complete and utter rubbish!"

"I'm not about to start babbling on at you, Erik." Nadir sounding a little put out, but he continued on regardless, making Erik groan quietly. "I just wanted to tell you that...well, that I'm proud of you. I'm proud to be your companion, Erik. I always have been."

"Oh, do stop being so ridiculously soppy, Khan!" Erik scorned, his voice raised above the pounding hooves. He could smell the damp, earthy smell of woodlands and rain and he wanted to enjoy the surroundings as they rode, not start having a heartfelt discussion about the past. They were on horseback and in the dark! "Proud of me- pah! Could you sound more patronising?!"

"No, I really mean it Erik!" Nadir repeated, serious for once. It was normal for Nadir to use that quiet, calm tone of voice these days; usually he was all over the place, cracking jokes and teasing Erik until he turned around and hit him. "The way that you've handled everything recently-"

"So, you mean the way that I just gave in to you and your demands, and let you have your own way? How I didn't go straight to Paris and demand that the music scores were taken out of publication, or how I go out and about in the daytime more often?"

"No, oaf!" Nadir sounded irritated now, which was somewhat satisfying to hear for once. "The way that you have managed not to fall back into depression, or mope, or spend hours sat on the floor crying after hurling your mask at the wall like last time. I was sure, I admit, that you would try to kill yourself now that she has chosen Raoul over you again but you didn't even try to kill yourself! You have been so brave, Erik, and I am so proud of how strong you are- in fact, this painful episode with Christine the hag has probably done you the world of good!"

Erik's mind immediately went to his previous plans to kill himself onstage, and he blushed in the darkness. Luckily, Nadir would not have been able to see as he was facing forwards as he rode his stumpy little pony. Erik didn't know how to react to such a testimony of praise- it was a little awkward, in truth. He wasn't strong, as Nadir was hailing him as, because he was still dreaming of the wretched woman every single night and feeling hopelessly lost without her! But he would never admit that to anyone, especially Nadir, and Erik's intentions remained as to trying to force Christine out of his life for good.

"Something does bother me though, Erik, and I would appreciate it if for once you didn't get angry and just answered me honestly." He continued, though he sounded far more hesitant, which already made Erik ball his fists and grit his teeth. However, he did not try to stop Nadir from spewing his thoughts and questions out, as he knew his words would have no effect anyway. "Do you honestly believe that love is a facade and for fools- that love is really just lies and heartbreak and pain?"

Erik laughed in honest amusement, anger gone, and the sound reverberated around the trees a little eerily. Nadir shivered.

"Of course I think that, Nadir." He replied in a slightly humoured voice. "Why else would I have written an entire opera based upon the concept of love being nothing but pain and heartbreak? Did you really manage to miss such a crucial principle of the whole story?!"

"But...but...your opera is about you and Christine, is it not?!" Nadir argued hotly, slowing his horse down to a walk so that he could look at Erik's face. "It is about the pain of unrequited love and how love can be tragic of not returned, not that all love is bad and a facade, surely?!"

"No, Daroga, you are being an idiot." Erik snapped back, getting angry now. Why could the old fool never just accept things for what they were? "Remember the story Nadir; the Angel dies because of love. If love really was this heavenly emotion as opposed to hate and pain, then why would the Angel die?! And look at the foolish girl; she decides that she rather fancies a man she barely knows and takes off with him, leaving _her _Angel to die of heartbreak! Surely, if love were what humankind thinks it is, then the girl would choose the Angel, not the other mortal man!"

"Yes, Erik, I understand that this opera is based upon your denial regarding Christine." Nadir replied a little drily, causing Erik to hiss in anger at the word 'denial'. "But surely you are aware that love isn't about who is the most sensible option, or the best person. Love is seemingly random at times, because it is about following your heart and your soul, or whatever it is. The concept of soul mates and two halves of a whole also-"

"And so you prove my point, Daroga." Erik chipped in, his voice cold and lifeless again. "For what if your soul mate, your _other half_ as you so aptly put it, doesn't love you in return? For there is no-one else for me, Khan, and you know that very well. I will only ever love her, yet she will never feel the same. Are Raoul and I the same shaped puzzle piece- do we both need her specifically? Or is your theory complete and utter rubbish, Khan, tell me that!?"

"That is not the point-" Nadir tried to defend himself, but Erik cut him off mercilessly. He was not in the mood to debate tonight; Nadir would just have to accept his opinion and be done with it.

"Exactly. It is all complete and utter rubbish, as you have just pointed out." He finished in a triumphant voice, patting his mounts shoulder as if to congratulate him too. Nadir looked very vexed as he fumed in stony silence, annoyed that Erik had twisted every point he had made to make them all useless. It was very annoying to be a friend to such a genius at times, and Nadir knew the frustration all too well. "Now you should fully understand why, to me, love is a facade for pain and hurt and suffering. It would be foolish to spend my life pining, I suppose, and I fully intend to end this state of foolishness and start to live. That, Nadir, is why I am not depressed or trying to kill myself."

Nadir just gaped in disbelief at Erik. Then, he rolled his eyes, giving up with the argument for tonight. Erik was stubborn, and whatever he said it would make no difference to this new mindset he had adopted for now. Who knew how long it would last- Nadir didn't to imagine that there might be more of these annoyingly pointless debates in the near future.

"So you're telling me that when you loved Christine, you were a fool?" he demanded tiredly.

"Nadir, I was the biggest fool to walk this Earth." Erik replied, before spurring his horse straight into a gallop and thundering off down the track, leaving Nadir covered in wet soil and plant debris that Erik's great hulk of a horse had just churned up. Nadir shook his head, trying not to think too much about what Erik had just said, before gathering the reins and trying to encourage his horse- or rather pony- to catch up with his impatient friend.

**So next chapter, Erik and Nadir will be in the UK! Yay! I always thought it would be cool if Erik came to the UK... in the actual novel and then the musicals he's been to most of Europe, the Orient, America... anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, though it was more of a filler than anything really action packed. OC's next time! :-) **


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux. **

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Erik has arrived in England as the owner of the brand new Black Rose Opera House! Yay! **

**Thank you so much readers/reviewers, especially; Filhound, icanhearthedrums, Tangosalsa, TMara, Hugabouv and Haquikah! I had never even thought about calling the Black Rose Phantasma instead- that would have been a good idea, especially as it took me a while to think of something appropriate for 19****th**** century London. *bangs head on desk at my own idiocy* But never mind... the show must go on! *dramatic orchestral music***

**Now onto chapter twenty two :-)**

**Twenty Two- We Give What We Can Give  
(Black Rose Opera House, London- a year on from the events of the last chapter)**

The summer sun was just managing to fight its way through a blanket of thick, smothering cloud, making the iron grey expanse of the Thames sparkle when it caught the weak rays of light. Carriages rumbled along the cobbles at dangerous speeds, coming perilously close to the ragged yet energetic children who darted across the grimy streets, occasionally being tailed by irate policemen. Amongst the rush and the symphony of city sounds, situated right in the centre of a particularly poor part of London, sat a brand new opera house.

The once crumbling and derelict buildings that even the destitute had been forced to abandon due to the state of them had become the centre of many Londoners curiosity over the last year. The buildings had been torn down, exposing open sewers and hundreds of rats, but now in their place stood a brand new building; an opera house. The faultless brickwork and gothic architecture was nothing like anything anyone had seen before and the gossip soon spread amongst the locals like wildfire.

Soon, it was understood- with some still doubtful- that the new opera house belonged to a French self-made millionaire, who was an architectural and musical genius. It became known, shortly afterwards, that inside the palatial building there was a breathtaking auditorium, elegant dining and guest rooms, a huge backstage and also lodgings for every employee. Soon the bewildering tale reached the ears of the aristocracy, who soon cast the whole thing aside, claiming that only a brainless fool would make an opera house in the poorest end of the city, where no Lord or Lady would ever venture.

The Black Rose Opera House was, in honesty, a mystery.

When posters began to spring up all around the city like wildflowers, advertising the vacancies within the mysterious new opera house, many Londoners applied for positions more out of curiosity than a desire to work within the theatre. But when every applicant was taken in by this seemingly benevolent Frenchman, all being giving a shockingly good salary and lodgings should they need them, interest soared as the people of London realised that employment within this new and seemingly laughable establishment could lift them out of the poverty they had fallen into.

By July 1875, five years after the disastrous fire at the Opera Populaire, Paris, Erik was the proud employer of hundreds of curious Londoners. Nadir watched in relative horror as Erik accepted thieves, prostitutes, thugs and cut-throats into his opera house alongside the miners and the factory workers who came to apply. Erik seemed to have no standards; as long as the said person was willing to work and not kill/steal/injure anyone else in the Black Rose, they were hired.

As cut-throats were directed to make scenery, or thieves to help assemble the rafters above the stage, Nadir found himself nearly crying with the stress. Erik could only laugh as his fussing friend, walking around the clean and unscathed corridors of his creation- for he had designed the whole building himself- and delighting in what he had done. For how could he, once an insane monster who had murdered and stolen and kidnapped, judge anyone that came to him when he had been just as bad, if not worse at the height of his miserable existence?

Erik had already taken those who claimed to be performers through the basics of singing and dancing, discovering both unearthly talents and awful failures. His mind was already alive with the ideas of songs he could compose for the range of voices he had unearthed from the unlikely collection of ragged Londoners, having already started to compose a melancholy duet for his two strongest singers. But neither Erik, nor Nadir, knew a thing about dancing. In his desperation, Erik had already written several pleas to Antoinette, imploring her to join him just for a year so that his collection of giggling girls might have the hope of becoming the elegant, poised ballerinas that had ruled the Opera Populaire, but Antoinette had declined.

'_I am far too old now, Erik, to demonstrate the basics of ballet to a collection of untrained women. You will never raise them to the standard of the Populaire, as the dancers of Paris were in training from a tender young age. Might I suggest that you embrace this challenge and appoint your strongest dancer to coordinate the other females, perhaps letting them devise their own dances? It will not look as elegant as ballet, I appreciate, but often energy and enjoyment can shine through the technical ability of dancers.'_

Erik showed the letter to Nadir, his face that of a spoilt child who had not been allowed to do as they please. He gripped the Persian by the shoulders, anger heightened by the stress and lack of sleep from such an ambitious project. Nadir's ridiculous laughter and feeble superior comments were not helping him calm down in any way.

"Khan, I cannot quite see what is so funny about this!" he roared, as Nadir snorted with the attempt to stop laughing. "I know that your menial existence requires very little intelligence and common sense, but even a blathering idiot could see the gravity of the situation we now find ourselves in!"

"But Erik." Nadir managed to stop spluttering, offended by the insult. "There is no major incident- you are stressing about nothing. I suggest that you stop running around like a madman and take some time to sleep."

"No major incident?" Erik hissed, waving the letter in Nadir's face again, his sanity quickly turning to hysteria. "_NO MAJOR INCIDENT?!_ I will not have a gaggle of incapable, left-footed ninnies stumbling about on my stage, defacing the brilliance of the music and acting that is sure to follow!"

Suddenly and without explanation, Nadir stormed off, leaving Erik to stew in his own anger. He failed to understand why the Persian was being such an idiot- did he not see how important this was to him? Erik was a perfectionist, and he prided himself on the fact. If the dancers were going to stumble about with no elegance or coordination whatsoever, then there were going to be no dancers at all.

Still angry and feeling the need to hit something, he began to thunder down the small spiral staircase and through the chaotic scene of backstage, where the basic props and walkways for the rafters were still being assembled. The slow pace of his work force was aggravating, but Erik was content with the fact that they at least tried to please him. Even now, as he strode past with his already odd looking face- on account of the flesh coloured mask- twisted into a venomous scowl, the men sawing at wood all called out greetings to him that made him smile a little and call pleasantries back. It was refreshing, having so many people to just accept him and his odd appearance; Erik had never experience d an environment quite like this in his life. It helped that his fair salaries and friendly attitude had earned him respect amongst his workforce. That was another refreshing change; Erik had never been truly respected by anyone before, either.

His angered stride had relaxed now, so as he crossed through the wings and onto the stage, the group of girls standing there did not look too alarmed. All set to demand an explanation for their apparent idleness, Erik strode up to them, but when he reached them he saw that Nadir stood in the middle of the group, talking animatedly to a tall girl with blonde hair.

The girl and Nadir both turned to look at him when he arrived, Nadir looking smug and the girl looking bored. She was nothing like Meg; tall, strong and with a slightly mean face. Erik knew that most of his employees had come from hideous backgrounds, thus making the majority of them tough and strong. He respected both traits and so when Nadir led the blonde girl from the group and to the side of the stage to talk with him, he shook her hand with a slight smile.

"Erik, this is Violet." Nadir said firmly, and Erik nodded. "Violet said that she is happy to coordinate the dancers and is also happy to teach the less able if they cannot keep up with their devised routine."

"I'll keep 'em in shape, don't you fuss." The girl said, her eyes critically examining her employer up close. "They'll do as I say, and if they don't I'll smack 'em. I don't take rubbish from no-one, especially the likes of them... Pathetic bunch."

Erik felt his eyebrows shoot right up and he turned to quickly glare at Nadir. He was impressed by Violet's confidence, not to mention her apparent respect for following authority to the letter, but Erik didn't like the idea of having to break up fights or trying to restrain the dancer, especially if she was intent on walloping someone for being rude to her.

"Well, I am very grateful for your offer, Violet." Erik replied, still glaring at Nadir, who turned and hurried away to the wings of the stage like the little coward he was. "But I think that hitting the other dancers might be a little too-"

"GIRLS! GET OVER HERE! I'M IN CHARGE NOW!" Violet yelled, completely ignoring him and turning away to face the assembled group of supposed dancers. Erik gritted his teeth and shook his head in disbelief. Confidence was one thing, but to have the audacity to blatantly ignore him! Erik gnashed his teeth as he walked away, making a mental note the Violet was loud, confident and seemed to have no respect for the management.

He came across Nadir in the shadows, slinking away ever so slowly, but Erik saw him and gripped his arm tightly.

"What can I say?" Nadir offered for means of an excuse when Erik glared down at him. "She seems very...er...capable."

The nature of Nadirs response, for a reason unbeknown to him, set Erik off and he began to nearly cry with laughter. Perhaps it was the shock of being bossed around by his own employee, or simply the building stress of the opera house, but Nadir became quite worried when Erik bean to gasp for air, still laughing like a madman. Nadir stood in silence just watching him for a minute, before rolling his eyes and going back to the office, certain that there would be a stack of paperwork waiting to be read and filled in. He didn't understand Erik these days- he could be raging around in a fearsome temper one moment, only to collapse into a fit of laughter the next. But even as Nadir cursed his friend's rapid mood swings, he found himself smiling, for the sound of Erik laughing was rare and a sure sign that things were getting better.

Erik, however, once recovered from his hysterical fit, did not have the time to muse over his mental state. With the issue of the dancers sorted for now- Erik had a horrible feeling that Violet might just hospitalise someone- it was time to start to work on the music, and consequently the stars that would be performing the music.

From the brief basic tests he had conducted weeks ago, Erik had highlighted a small collection of extremely talented singers. Then, out of that small group, he had identified the two strongest and most able. The two, seemingly unlikely, potentials were a young man and a young woman, both of about 17 years old and both from horrifying backgrounds. The girl, Marianne, was a frail and sickly looking thing who had spent most of her life in a mill. Daniel, the boy, was a worker in a factory of some description, and he looked far stronger than the girl, though still not healthy. Both had grimy faces, bags under their tired eyes, ragged clothes, injuries from their dangerous occupations and yet both had a fighting spirit. They did not mope or sob; they just kept living. It was an ability that Erik much admired and wanted for himself, which made him like them even more.

He found them both in the specified practise area, locked in cheery conversation that actually turned out to be Daniel showing Marianne his lack of two fingers on one hand. The girl seemed to find this impressive and when Erik entered the room, the conversation ended rather reluctantly. Both Marianne and Daniel smiled at him, though Daniel looked far more confident than she did.

"Mr Boss Sir!" Daniel chirped in a perfectly pleasant voice when Erik extended a hand for him to shake. "Thank you so much for hiring me, Sir! I'll not let you down, I swear!"

"Me neither." Marianne added in her far softer voice, also shaking Erik's hand. She was still dressed as she would be in the mill; her almost black hair scraped back so tightly that a vein was throbbing at her temple and her dress covered in marks where the machines had clearly snagged the fabric. Erik smiled at them both and immediately they smiled back. They seemed so grateful for their jobs, so eager to please now, that Erik felt a little humbled. His existence beneath the opera in Paris had been horrifying; there was no doubt about it. But these people had also lived horrifying lives...yet they did not act resentful or depressed. Erik hated to think that if he had handled his situation a little differently, maybe he would not have acted so stupidly and cruelly three years ago.

The practise room was a good size, with plenty of room for the piano and large mirror inside, as well as open space for dancers or singers to stand. The ceiling was higher than normal, to create the best environment possible for music, and it was also well lit. So well lit, in fact, that when Erik turned to sit at the piano Daniel and Marianne could suddenly see his face clearly. Daniel whistled in disbelief, his face curious.

"Mr Boss, you're wearing a mask." He commented casually, his confidence different to Violet's had been and yet still enough to make him relaxed around his employer. "There was a story about that, over in France. The Opera Ghost. He was masked, wasn't he?"

Marianne, clearly a little less confident and more aware of basic manners, immediately elbowed him in the ribs, her eyes a little fearful.

"You idiot! You can't just go around pointing out other peoples looks and then compare them to a hideous myth!" she whispered. Her blunt words seemed to dawn on Daniel, who suddenly looked petrified that he might lose this well paying job before he had even started. Erik, however, looked at their tense faces and laughed, shaking his head in the pleasant shock of how eager to please they really were. It was even more amusing that Daniel's assumptions were correct, if not a little startling, but Erik wasn't going to tell the boy that he had been right.

"Because I wear a mask, and am French, then I must be the mysterious Opera Ghost? The Phantom of the Opera?" he laughed, his voice friendly enough to relax Daniel and Marianne, who both smiled sheepishly. It was clear that the girl had leapt to the same conclusion, or at least thought it. Had his antics really been sensationalised over the channel as well as in Paris? Erik felt almost a little smug about this, only he was aware that the dramatised tales were all of hideous monsters and bloodthirsty murder, not a cunning magician or master composer. "So many people jump to the same conclusion- do not worry about it. It is for this reason that I wear a flesh coloured mask these days, as far too many people approached me in the streets demanding I explain just what happened that night."

The lies fell as easily from his tongue as the truth would have, and Marianne and Daniel laughed along with him, not doubting him for a second. Erik had almost been expecting them to scream and run for help, not believing him. But why would they doubt you?, Erik thought to himself, you're in England now; you are not a wanted man. This revelation was rather pleasing and Erik found himself renewed with energy to turn these two young people into brilliant opera stars.

As neither could sing from a musical score, having never been musically trained in anyway whatsoever, Erik laboriously spent the remainder of the afternoon simply taking them through the melody, painstakingly teaching them each line of melody and how to tell when they should start to sing. They were bright and soon caught on to what certain musical symbols meant or how they should put expression into their voice to meet the mood of the song. They were naturals, which pleased Erik enormously.

He sang the melodies for them, so that they could memorise and copy them, but about half way through the song Marianne, instead of repeating the line as Erik instructed, asked him a question that made his heart freeze and plunged him back into a feeling of depression that had completely faded over the afternoon.

"Excuse me, Sir, but why don't you sing at all yourself?" she asked, her eyes wide in awe and her quiet voice sounding amazed. Erik could do little else than stare down at the expanse of black and white keys. He didn't have an answer to give. "You're an amazing singer."

Erik forced himself to look up from the keys, which had blurred in his continuous stare, and instead he faced Marianne, looking her straight in the eyes. They were warm, curious eyes; brown in colour, though a different brown to- Erik felt his shoulders slump.

"I...I cannot truly explain why, Marianne, but my singing days are long gone." He replied quietly, aware of how heartbroken he sounded. Even Daniel had stopped fiddling with a loose thread on his clothing to stare at Erik, shocked by how sad his new employer sounded. "I simply write these days... though my muse- things happen, things that we cannot control no matter how hard we try. I tried...but now it will never be the same again, and I fear my passion for singing will never return to me."

To his complete surprise, both young people nodded in agreement. Erik, used to Nadir and his loathing of self-pity, felt his mouth gape in shock, though he quickly closed it.

"Yes." Marianne said, softly and sadly as she took a seat on a cane chair which she dragged from the corner of the room. Erik looked at her with watchful eyes, seeing how her eyes had filled with involuntary tears. "My sister died of pneumonia, last winter. I felt that I would die to with the grief I felt, she was so important to me... everything we used to do together seems wrong now. I hate to, but I can't help but cry..."

Daniel passed her a grubby red handkerchief, which she accepted with a soft thank you. He patted her arm, looking quite miserable himself.

"I know how you feel." He added with a shrug, as if he accepted it, but his bitter tone told Erik that Daniel was not content with the way things were. "My Ma slaves away doing all sorts of jobs- proper jobs, and then improper ones too. Dad doesn't like it, but we need the money, and if he stopped drinking it all away then she wouldn't need to stoop so low for each penny! Drunken sod."

Marianne looked up and reached out with one hand. He grasped it, and they smiled at each other, a smile that spoke thousands of words all at once. A smile that seemed to piece their composure back together, so that they dried their eyes and sat up straight again, looking at Erik expectantly, waiting for the next melody to learn. Erik could only stare back, speechless. He reached out for the music on the piano, the usual melancholy duet telling his story, the story of unrequited love and hate. He stared wordlessly at the music score and then back at the two young people waiting for him to speak, seeing their extraordinary strength shine out of their faces.

Why should they have to sing his depressing duets about Christine?! How insulting that they, such strong people, had been made to sing about his own pathetic weakness! Erik gritted his teeth as he looked down at the whingeing lyrics, suddenly feeling weak and stupid. Why did he even keep writing songs based around that hurtful wench anyway?! Pah! Ignoring the pain in his heart, for he knew full well why he kept writing songs based upon her, he tried to turn his mind to a new idea; a new opera, entirely different from his usual work.

An opera written for the young people of London _about_ the young people of London! All of his employees had stories to tell, with heartbreak and pain and sorrow and hope, not to mention their courage and strength to soldier on. Why not let them tell the world about themselves through music and dance? They deserved some recognition, after all that they had suffered! He could already imagine the music that would fill the auditorium; sad and accepting yet always with that optimistic end, the hope that they felt-! It would be breathtaking. And how could the pompous twits of the gentry continue to ignore the poorer classes if they were presented with an opera telling them how bad things were?

Erik looked up again at the faces of Daniel and Marianne, still waiting for him to speak. Then, he took the melancholy love song from the piano, scrunched it into a tight ball and hurled it across the room, making Marianne gasp and cover her mouth with her hands, as if she had somehow caused him to do such a thing.

"Sir, I am so sorry if you thought that I was criticising-" she nearly sobbed, her face distraught, but Erik motioned with his hands for her to stop, his face already slipping into a grin. Marianne sniffled and little into the handkerchief Daniel had passed her, watching him with confused eyes.

"No, Marianne, you have helped me come to a new idea for this opera house!" he threw his arms out, gesticulating wildly as if to emphasise the importance of this new idea. "I want to write an opera- a new opera, based upon the young people of London and their stories, people just like you both! I'll need your help, of course, and you two will be the stars of the show-!"

Erik was practically bouncing in his seat he was so excited! He could feel the ideas bubbling away already in his head, sparked by the new idea. He hadn't felt this animated for a long time and it was making him feel dizzy as he nearly burst out laughing. Perhaps it was the stress and exhaustion again, affecting his mental state, but Erik felt euphorically happy. Both of his singers looked doubtful, a little hesitant to speak as they assessed the sanity of their employer, but Erik wasn't at all put off by their lack of enthusiasm. A melody had already begun to form inside his mind; unwinding slowly and making him twitch with the need to put it on paper.

He spun round on the stool and grabbed some score sheets, scribbling the idea down and then putting it back on the piano. The lyrics...the lyrics needed to tell stories...

"So days go on, we can't fight time..." Erik muttered aloud as he scribbled the ideas down, the surge of inspiration making his behaviour erratic. "Sinking in endless despair- no. Sinking in endless..._feeling_ this endless despair..."

He leapt up from the piano stool and dashed across the room in a frenzy, nearly ripping the drawer out of the bureau in his maddened attempt to get another wad of paper. The ink scarred the paper, his ideas scratching across the creamy expanse, his handwriting still flawless even in the rush to get all his ideas down before they slipped out of his mind.

"Sir...I don't understand." Marianne eventually dared to say aloud, cautious in her approach. "What opera? Why would anyone pay to listen to songs about the poorer classes- it's boring. _We're_ boring."

Daniel elbowed her for the boring comment, but had to agree with her statement. They both couldn't understand what had gotten into the man who now rolled his eyes heavenward in despair of them and their lack of understanding. He was clearly a musical genius, churning out songs at a mile a minute, but the outburst had come from nowhere. Marianne had even been enjoying the tragic love song duet.

"Don't you see?!" Erik asked frantically, waiting for the sudden realisation and then the excitement to spark up and dance across their blank faces. Still, they did not give the response he so desired. "It will most certainly not be boring, Marianne, it will be empowering! Your stories, your memories, your lives...they are real! The best music, and therefore the best operas, always come from real tales; real emotion that feeds the soul and the music-! Music that will lift your very soul and take to you the places you had never even- but I will not go ahead with this without your consent. It is your life and your story; it is up to you whether I use your stories to make an opera."

Erik stopped, breathing heavily from the rant and still seeing no trace of understanding on either of their blank faces. He rubbed his exposed temple and sighed, waiting for a reply of any kind. But before this reply could be spoken, the door suddenly flew open and smashed into the wall with a colossal crash. Erik sprang up and marched over there, seeing Nadir stood panting in the doorway, and he gripped the Persian by the collar.

"Nadir." He hissed, ignoring the stares of Daniel and Marianne. "I am in the middle of a rehearsal. And if you go slamming doors like that, one will break and you will pay for it!"

"Erik, hush." He puffed, leaning on the wall for support once Erik put him down. "You will not believe what is going on out there. That blonde girl has another dancer by the hair-"

"WHAT?!" Erik demanded, grabbing Nadir by the shoulders again, only to throw him down and run out of the practise room, dragging Nadir along with him as he charged towards the stage. Nadir, already out of breath, didn't look too impressed by the fact that he now had to run again. He looked even less happy as Erik began to curse him. "Why the blazes didn't you stop her, you blockhead?!"

"Have you seen the girl, Erik?" Nadir gasped for breath, feeling very faint. He stumbled a little as he tried to keep up as Erik pulled him along. "She's like a bear just out of hibernation! If I'd dared even to ask her to put the girl down she would have ripped my head off, let alone if I had tried to forcibly separate the two of them!"

Erik would have stopped running and shaken Nadir by the shoulders if the threat of a hairless dancer wasn't bearing down on them. Instead, he pinched the Persian as they ran, causing him to yelp like a trodden on spaniel.

"I swear, Khan, there were braver rabbits than you. You had the courage to save me from the Shah, for goodness sakes! Man up, you blabbering fool, and take authority over your employees!"

But when they at last reached the stage, with Nadir now puffing like a train at full speed, Erik saw just what his friend had meant, immediately feeling a little less disparaging. However, he had employed everyone on the basis that they would be hardworking and would refrain from unpleasant and uncivilised behaviour, and to Erik's mind, seizing another girl by the hair was very uncivilised indeed. He marched over to the group of girls who were stood watching, moving them all out of the way as quickly as he could without shouting at them, which he truly wanted to do. Why hadn't the fools tried to stop the fight from occurring?!

Violet was bellowing at the girl she had attacked and pinned to the wall, a fist of her fiery red hair in her grasp. The victim was trying to squirm free, but any movement pulled her hair and made her wince in pain. However, she was kicking at Violet with all her might and she did manage to deliver a few successful blows.

"LISTEN TO ME, YOU NINNY! YOU'LL DO AS I SAY, WHEN I SAY! GOT IT?" Violet screamed, still not managing to stop the girl from squirming and kicking, which Erik could only assume was her intended outcome.

"No, I will not, you uncouth pig!" the other girl yelled back, not sounding as distressed as Erik would have expected from a girl pinned to the wall by their hair. "I don't take orders from idiots who bellow orders at me without manners!"

Erik decided that he had better intervene before the girl lost half the hair on her head. He leapt into the fray, taking Violet y surprise and yanking her backwards before she could rip the fistful of red hair from the girls scalp. He pushed Violet, who was still stunned by the unexpected attack, into a corner and then pulled the other girl away from the wall. Violet was not looking impressed; she started to get up, snarling a little as the other girl stuck out her tongue, but Erik silenced them both with an angry glare, his eyes flashing with menace.

"You should know, ladies, that I am not an unreasonable man. But I do have standards that I expect from you as both my employees and as performers on the Black Rose Opera House stage. _One of these expectations is that my dancers do not behave like street thugs_!" Erik bellowed, shooting another warning look at Violet, who despite the previous glare was still readying herself to pounce on someone else, boiling with rage. "Now before someone ends up dead or bald, why don't we all just CALM DOWN?!"

Nadir suddenly appeared from where he had been hiding in the wings, passing the red-haired girl a cloth as her nose was bleeding. She smiled warmly at him, not looking too unhappy at her predicament, bouncing cheerfully on the spot and rubbing a sore patch on her scalp with little more than a wince. A few of the other girls whispered compliments of her bravery, but she simply shook her head and smiled some more, still intently watching Violet and her face that was contorted with fury.

"Tell that ugly rat to listen to me then!" Violet screeched, spitting the words out with such venom that her face turned purple with the effort. "Or maybe you should let me teach 'er a lesson!"

"You have been warned, Violet." Erik said coldly, refraining from the urge to throw something at the girl. Not something that would really hurt...just to embarrass her and take her down from whatever pedestal she had climbed onto. He turned to the victim, who was still grinning cheerfully, and tried to remember that she was part of the trouble too. However, her calm attitude in comparison to Violet's dramatics was very likable, so he found himself already taking her side. "Explain what happened, please. Now."

The girl licked her lips and tossed back her wild red curls, opening her emerald eyes wide and smiling again. She knew that she had the attention of everyone in the room, or rather on the stage, and she knew that she wanted to make Violet explode. Her mischievous smile made a few of the other dancers giggle and she smiled at them, too.

"I refuse to be treated like a fool, Sir. That ill-mannered lout over there seems to think that her loud voice makes her the boss and I disagree. She has no right to treat me and the others like rubbish." She paused for a second and glanced over at the piano, shiny and newly painted, sat innocently in the wings just begging to be played. "And whilst I have the opportunity Sir, I would like to point out that I am not a dancer."

"Then what exactly are you?" Erik asked, curious yet fed up with the dancers already. They were causing him trouble both inadvertently and purposefully, which was a little more than annoying. He just wanted to get back to Marianne, Daniel and the new opera idea. His hands ached to be let loose on a piano, but he made himself stop fidgeting and be polite. "And tell me your name, so that I may actually address you."

"My name is Connie, Sir, and I am a pianist, who sings." She said proudly, causing Violet to sneer at her in a very ugly manner. "I did try to tell the delightful lady over there, but she ignored me and proceeded to try and make me bald."

Nadir making a choking noise from behind Erik, so he turned and saw that the Persian was struggling not to burst out laughing. A few of the other girls began to giggle as well, making Connie's grin widen and Violet's face turn a deeper shade of red. Erik glared at Nadir, who stopped laughing, sensing that a fight would soon start again if everyone continued to antagonise the already furious dancer. To stop the fight, he gestured to the piano and stepped quickly between where Connie and Violet stood.

"Please, play something." He offered quietly, his voice somehow firm enough to make the request an order. Connie nodded, obedient now, and as she went to sit at the piano all eyes followed her. She looked down at the keys and then looked at Erik, who nodded impatiently. He was expecting something ropey and barely in tune, the standard 'thank you, but no thank you' already dancing on the tip of his tongue.

But everyone in the room, or rather on the stage, was completely astonished when a bright and vibrant voice filled the room alongside a fairly well played piano piece. Connie sang the ballad of a woman who killed her lover for leaving her, a perfect choice of song for her voice, which was tuneful and pleasant, but not trained. But that didn't matter. Erik stopped her after eight bars.

"Leave the dancers and come to the practise rooms every morning from now onwards." He said in a stunned voice, hearing Nadir laugh again from behind him. Violet let out a yell of frustration and stomped off somewhere, making Connie play a triumphant run down the piano, much to the delight of the other dancers who clustered around the piano. Erik turned to Nadir, whose face was just as stunned yet happy as Erik's, and both men walked back to the practise rooms feeling worn out.

On returning to the practise rooms after the leisurely walk, Erik found Marianne and Daniel deep in another conversation, this time not about lack of fingers on one hand but about the opera idea. They stopped talking as Erik came inside and both smiled at him, which made Erik feel optimistic. Had they finally understood what he meant about an opera based upon their lives? He took a seat at the piano and then turned to face them, inviting their comments with his eyes.

"Well, I personally cannot claim to understand the appeal with our stories." Daniel shrugged, making Erik groan. "But we've talked, Sir, and we both have no problems with you creating this opera."

Erik smiled suddenly at them both, the excitement sparked again as he reached for the wad of paper, his eyes dancing as he looked at them both.

"In that case...shall we begin?"


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Here is the next chapter. Whilst last chapter was basically an introduction to the Black Rose and the OC's, this chapter should be opening up the way for some more drama... *grins manically***

**Thank you so much for your reviews/follows, as all very much appreciated. Thank you especially to Tangosalsa, icanhearthedrums and TMara. Tangoslasa- I like the idea of the opera being called 'Hope'! And icanhearthedrums, don't worry, Erik's opera about the Angel is still being shown whilst he writes this new opera...and a certain Vicomtess has been to see it in Paris... **

**Twenty Three- Learn To Be Lonely  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

The night was dark and damp, the streets unlit and the cobbles glistening in the hazy moonlight, wet with the rain that had been unleashed on the defenceless ground not an hour ago. The pungent scent of the rain still hung in the air, though the grime and soot accumulated over the years had held out against the rush of the rainwater as it flowed away to the Thames. Nadir felt a small smile creep onto his face as he strode down the darkened streets, his boots kicking at the fallen autumn leaves like a child, delighting in the occasional splash as his feet met the pools of collected rainwater. How the leaves had reached the grimy city centre, which held no foliage at all, remained a mystery. But to Nadir, that only made the matter more amusing.

He liked London. Despite all his previous doubts about a colder, rainier climate to that of the already sodden Paris, he was finding rare little jewels amongst the rain and the grey skies that made him feel at home, more so than he had ever felt in Paris. The air of the place was somehow harsher; there was no pretence that the city was perfect, unlike some places he had visited in his life. The people he had met were pleasant and often very amusing, but then Paris had been full of friendly faces too.

He still missed the heat and the vibrant colours of the Orient; that would never change. He also found himself missing things from Paris, which he had never expected; the warm aroma of fresh bread seeping from the open door of a boulangerie, the gorgeous wine, the general air of happiness and joy, the friendly street sellers who never minded if he stopped to talk to them... But Nadir had discovered a whole host of new delights here in London, such as the bustling markets filled with colourful flowers, the beautiful buildings and his infatuation with a particular Scottish whisky that was simply divine-

Nadir smiled again as he crossed another deserted road, catching sight of the well-lit, architecturally beautiful Black Rose Opera House nestled amongst the crumbling, derelict houses. When he thought about it, his love of London had derived from one thing alone; Erik's new found happiness within the city.

Nadir let himself into the Black Rose through the back door, leading directly into the backstage area where the performers were supposed to be getting ready. What he found inside was complete and utter chaos; everyone running around like headless chickens, costumes half on, props being thrown around, arguments breaking out- if Erik had seen it, he would have erupted into a blazing rage, as he had done several times previously when witnessing such madness. It wasn't as if this was the first show either; in the last week of the summer the doors had opened to the public, inviting them in to watch disjointed collections of small acts.

But tonight that was due to change, and as Nadir was nearly knocked over by a stressed pair of stagehands carrying a prop of some description to the edge of the stage, he realised that no-one felt at all ready for this terrifying leap into professional entertainment. Tonight would be the first performance of a full opera, in all its glory. The opera Erik had selected, and rehearsed over and over with them, was the very one he had written himself, about the Angel who died of heartbreak. The opera about the Londoners themselves had yet to be completed, but Nadir felt a twinge of nerves as he saw them all flap about in a panic. If they couldn't perform this opera successfully, then Erik's hard work would have been a waste- Nadir couldn't bear to think it, not when his friend had spent entire nights at the piano, slaving away to perfect each and every song before the ridiculous deadline he had set for himself.

It was odd, for though Nadir was stressing about tonight's performance, the first full opera, Erik was not even nervous. He had simply laughed as Nadir flapped around during rehearsal, when someone sang a wrong note or forgot their lines. He was adamant that his employees would give everything in their performance, and he had no doubt in their ability. Nadir wished, as he hurried along the corridors and up the narrow spiral staircase, that he could adopt the same calm persona.

So far, no members of the aristocracy had dared to venture out to the Black Rose. Either daunted by the presence of the lower classes- who could afford to come to the Black Rose, as the prices were cheap- or unaware of the new sensation in the city, the audience had yet to be joined by Lords and Ladies who would surely dominate the boxes and gaze down at everyone with disapproval. Nadir knew, with a bubble of smug happiness, that tonight's performance would change the image of the Black Rose and therefore tempt the snobby aristocrats of London- there had already been interest from abroad.

Finally, after battling through a crowd of giggling dancers, Nadir made it to the office and barged straight in, not bothering to knock. He stood panting a little in the doorway and once he had regained his breath, he went fully inside and headed straight for his desk, grimacing at the stack of unopened letters sat there waiting for him.

"Good evening, Khan." Erik's voice came from the other side of the room, where he sat at his own desk, scribbling madly. Nadir presumed that he was working on his opera, still. He did not look up once from his work, though continued to speak. "How was the hectic rush of greater London?"

Nadir laughed at Erik's pleasant tone, still finding it difficult to associate this new cool headed Erik with the raging Opera Ghost. It was such a stark contrast that Nadir would never have believed that Erik was capable of such a personality change, had he not witnessed both sides to the extremely complex man. He began to sift through the huge stack of envelopes, looking for something vaguely interesting amongst them and failing.

"It was busy, as predicted. But we managed to convince many businesses to advertise our performances- they were grateful for the money." He paused as he found an envelope that looked different from the rest- good quality paper, with elegant handwriting. "How is the opera coming along?"

Erik stopped writing furiously and looked up. His white mask was gleaming eerily in the firelight, making Nadir feel a little nervous. Erik had been wearing the flesh coloured one so often recently that the old white mask looked odd- too much like the Phantom. It didn't help that Erik's gold eyes were glinting in the firelight also, making him seem mysterious and unearthly.

"It is just fine, Khan." He replied in a normal, conversational tone that took away the eerie sensation, gesturing to the page of neat writing sat on his desk. "It will be completed by winter, allowing us to rehearse and perform in the New Year."

He went back to writing at an astounding pace and Nadir sighed, looking at the majestic grandfather clock in the corner that seemed to watch over the room with an imperious gaze. As his eyes met the glossy wood, it chimed. The melodious sound did not rouse Erik, but Nadir knew that seeing as the opera was going to start at eight o clock...

"Quarter to eight, Erik." Nadir commented casually, seeing Erik's head snap up as he looked frantically at the time. "The opera commences in fifteen minutes-"

"Why didn't you mention the time before now, you complete oaf?!" Erik yelled, slamming his fists onto the table and leaping up from his seat in one swift movement, tearing round the small office as he searched for his sheet music. His yellow eyes were now blazing with fury, all traces of calm Erik gone, and Nadir once again found himself puzzling over the drastic mood swings of his unpredictable friend. How could one man be so different in the space of ten minutes? "You know full well, Khan, that I am accompanying the orchestra on the piano and you didn't think to mention how late it is?! I wonder sometimes if you are a complete imbecile, or simply out to make my life as difficult as you can manage!

Nadir rolled his eyes as Erik found his music, put on the flesh coloured mask, snarled and charged out of the room. He felt worn out from just listening to Erik's rant- did that man not ever wear himself out simply by shouting?! Nadir settled back into his chair and poured himself a whisky, reaching for the envelope again.

As Nadir settled down for a fairly relaxed evening, Erik ran down various corridors and flights of stairs, working himself into a complete frenzy as he charged through the doors to backstage, very nearly slamming them into a surprised dancer. He checked with the stage hands to see if a piano had been positioned just off stage for him, hidden in the wings, and on finding everything to his satisfaction he took a deep breath and went to find Marianne and Daniel.

He found them huddled in a corner, and at first he thought that they might be locked in a lovers embrace. He immediately realised that they were simply talking, but the thought of lovers and embracing the woman he adored made his heart clench painfully, making him feel sick as he approached his two stars. He had an opera house, he had the respect of all his employees, he had the chance to show his music to the world at last...and yet it was not enough. It would never be enough, not whilst he still loved her- and when would he not love her?! Cursing himself for being such a fool, Erik strode up to Marianne and Daniel, trying to remember that he was supposed to be happy.

"Mr Boss Sir!" Daniel chirped rather enthusiastically. "We wondered when you were going to get here- we thought you'd forgotten."

"Forgotten?" Erik asked in an amused voice, finding Daniels honesty about everything a cause for amusement. "How could I forget that tonight is the first time an opera will be performed on the Black Rose Opera House stage?! You will both do very well, I am certain. And Daniel, I already told you that 'Sir' will suffice."

"Yes, Mr Boss Sir." He replied quickly, grinning, and Erik raised an eyebrow, struggling not to smile at the boys brainless attempts at humour.

"Are you ready, Marianne?" Erik asked, smiling. The girl nodded, but she did not smile. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing, Sir." She replied quickly, sounding nervous. Erik suddenly realised when he heard the tremble in her voice- of course she was nervous. The girl was about to sing before an enormous audience not just once, but through an entire opera in the role of the main female character! But Erik felt astounded when the girl continued with her reply. "I am a little nervous, but it's not that. My character in this opera...she's selfish. And stupid. I wish you hadn't cast me as her, for I can't put any real emotion into singing as her- she infuriates me!"

Before Erik could even try to dredge up some form of response to her odd comment, the violin began to play the 16 bars of a solo, signalling the start of the opera and the cue for the male actor to ready himself for the stage. Erik had no choice but to rush to the piano, ready for the first song, his mind still reeling from what Marianne had said. She was an odd girl, there was no other way of looking at the matter, but what she had just said was making Erik feel both confused and angry. Christine wasn't selfish! He had been in the wrong, kidnapping her and nearly forcing her to marry him by threatening the death of her boy...but had she really needed to unmask him like that in front of everyone on the night of Don Juan? What had she gained from that foolish act? And then there was the fact that she had chosen her fop over him again, even though he had saved her life... Erik shook his head a little, trying to clear his mind and focus on the music that he would have to play as soon as the speech was over.

As it had on the opening night in Switzerland, the opera went flawlessly. The orchestra managed not to play too loudly and overpower the singers, as they had done several times in rehearsal, and even the joker Daniel remembered to breathe before the powerful last chorus of his big solo so that he didn't faint- another regular occurrence in rehearsal. The final words of the Angel had many of the audience crying noisily, which was oddly pleasing, with thunderous applause as all the performers took their final bow together, smiling up at the endless rows of people and wondering why they ever doubted themselves. Erik could hardly believe it, for though he had feigned total immunity to nerves in the presence of Nadir, he had felt a little worried for his performers' sakes. But now he stood in the wings and applauded them all with more enthusiasm than the entire auditorium, bubbling with excitement as he made his retreat back up to the office, still grinning like a fool.

The audience had adored the opera- so many of them had never seen an opera before, unable to afford it- and his cast had proved that the poorer classes were as capable of singing and dancing as any finely trained soprano or ballerina. His employees had lit up the stage with their energy and enjoyment, just as Antoinette had said! Erik reached the office, still able to hear the thunderous applause, and went straight inside without a thought, already ranting mindlessly as to how excellent the show had been. He was euphorically happy again and proud too; it was a dizzying sensation, being so happy, but Erik wanted to savour every second of it.

"Nadir, it was brilliant! Oh I cannot even- they shone! Every last one of them shone like the very stars themselves! I could not find fault in anything they did, it was perfect!" he ranted in his delighted voice, falling back into his chair and throwing his mask to the floor, not caring that his hideous face was on show for a minute whilst he foraged around to find where he had dumped his white one. "The audience- oh, they could barely contain their approval! The applause was still audible in the corridor outside this very room! Even that blasted Mr Tanner managed to keep his cello in tune after I rescued it earlier today- it was truly wondrous, Nadir. You should have watched from one of the boxes- it was marvellous!"

Erik at last found his white mask and he placed it lightly onto his face, grinning as he looked directly at Nadir, waiting for a response. But Nadir's face did not twitch into the smile that Erik was expecting- in fact, he looked so bothered by something that Erik could not continue his glory rant. Instead, he sat there, lost for words and feeling a little irritated that Nadir was being so rude.

"Khan, you're clearly angry about something or other, so tell me why." He demanded, possessing no tactful methods or soothing words in his irritation. He had expected Nadir to be ecstatically happy for him, after all the stress and the worry about tonight's performance, and now he was sat there in dumb silence like an unintelligent fool! "For goodness sakes, man, don't sit there and gawp at me! Speak!"

Erik felt anger beginning to throb at his temple, watching as Nadir simply shifted and looked even more uneasy under the glare of his friend. But what did the fool expect, if he sat there like an idiot when he should have been celebrating?! Erik felt a little fearful that something serious could be wrong with Nadir, his eyes frantically searching the Persian's frowning face, but if Nadir didn't care to share his troubles, then he wasn't helping anyone. Feeling the urge to slap some sense into his friend but holding back from doing such a thing, Erik gritted his teeth and forced himself to ignore Nadir, settling down to continue working on his opera with an angry hiss. He began to slash at the page with the quill, the words jagged and spiked in his anger, and on seeing this amongst the rest of the meticulously neat handwriting, Erik threw the quill down and slammed his fists down on the table, staring accusingly at his silent friend.

Nadir looked up at the sound, his eyes tired and worried, and his face told Erik that he didn't want to share what was on his mind. But Nadir, having suffered a great many of Erik's tempers of the years, knew that Erik would continue relentlessly until he found the source of the problem. It would be better to just let him get hideously angry and for the truth to come out rather than suffer the evil glares and snarled questions until he caved in and told him.

"Look, Erik..." he began, but then stopped. He didn't want to say it. "If I asked- no, _implored_ you to keep calm and not work yourself into a rage, would you honour my request?"

Erik, on hearing these words, felt his fists clench as he raised one eyebrow, scornful already. Of course Nadir would manage to throw in something patronising along the way.

"I do hope, Khan, that this doesn't mean that you have done something utterly brainless."

The softly spoken yet sinister words made Nadir shift uneasily, looking uncomfortable already.

"Look, Erik, I don't want...just answer me, please." He replied testily. Erik, despite his urges to get up and storm out of the room, was too curious and so nodded his reply. Nadir took a deep breath, knowing that the response from Erik was bound to be unpleasant. But the fool had demanded to know, so he would know. "If you're sure...we have received a letter, asking that the sender might have a box on the opening night of your new opera. Our advertising has obviously done what it is supposed to-"

Erik cut off Nadir, who still looked as if he might be sick, with a burst of laughter. He settled back in his chair, comforted by the Persians words already, feeling at ease. Nadir looked confused and a little angry, leaning forward in his own seat, but Erik merely chuckled under his breath, finding the situation highly amusing.

"My, my, Nadir, are you really that doubtful of my writing skills that you would have no-one attend the opening night?!" he asked in an amused voice, though Nadir did not smile. "Dear me, I thought that you enjoyed my music- unless played at three in the morning, of course!"

"Be quiet, you complete oaf, and let me finish." Nadir replied icily and Erik lapsed into silence, though the amused smirk on his face remained. It was hilarious; Erik knew that Nadir was a drama queen when he wanted to be, but this over reaction was a new record! "It is not the matter of the request that is a problem...it is _who_ has made the request. Erik...the people who have requested this box...they are the de Chagny's. Raoul and...and Christine."

The smirk immediately fell from Erik's face and he battled with the desire to leap up and bellow all sorts of curses and foul words at Nadir, simply because he was sat there. The feelings that were bubbling up inside him were making his head and heart pound painfully in synchronisation, the thought of Christine coming to this opera house, unaware that it was _he_ who ran it... the fear that should he see her, he would not be able to resist approaching her again.

"And your point is, Khan?" he said in a tight, controlled voice, loathing the stutter of his aching heart at her name alone. "I don't care."

"But Erik-!" Nadir gasped, outrage in his voice as he stood up. Erik also stood up, meeting Nadir's horrified eyes with his own cold glare. "She might see you! She might see you and tell her disgusting little husband! Or _you_ might see _her_! No...this will inflict completely unnecessary pain upon you; I'm going to write to them and tell them that they cannot come."

Erik felt fury bubble up inside of him, so he left his desk and strode across the room, coming face to face with Nadir and standing so close that he could reach out and shake him by the shoulders should he want to. He was fighting the want to slap the stupid man, keeping his hands firmly by his sides. His glare was full of such contempt that Nadir looked sheepish and sank back down into his chair.

"They are paying customers, Khan, so you will not send them away." He ordered in a tone that left no room for arguing. He crossed the room again and took his seat once more, the anger fading back to hopelessness. "Besides, why would they see me? I own the Black Rose, I do not sing onstage! I will merely play the piano behind a screen as I always do, I will remain in the office whenever possible and that will be that. I'm not about to lure her backstage to sing with me, am I? Blockhead!"

Nadir, still worn down from Erik's yelling, was brutally honest.

"I don't know. I supposed that...that you might, as you want to see her again." He said in a shaky voice that slowly became sarcastic. "It might even be a good idea, after you've had time apart. You could talk to her, see how she is, perhaps explain your undying devotion providing that she doesn't run screaming or call the police."

Erik felt his heart lurch at the thought of seeing Christine. It made him want to give in and just sob on the floor at the mere thought of seeing her again after two years without her...but what if she did want to run screaming from him?! That would be even worse! Erik fought back the tears he could feel burning his eyes, managing to remain calm and dignified, leaving Nadir in a state of shock.

"You know, Khan, that I don't hold that sort of emotion for her anymore." He said softly, his heart thudding in protest at the blatant lie. But his steady voice and guarded facial expression convinced Nadir, who poured himself another whisky to get over the shock. "I told you; it was foolish."

Nadir still looked doubtful and opened his mouth to protest, but then he closed it again. Erik's calm manner had convinced him that to accept the de Chagny's request would not be detrimental to anyone's mental health, but he still felt uneasy. Nevertheless, he reached for his paper and ink to pen the reply.

"Nadir?" Erik asked softly, making Nadir look up hopefully, his pen poised above the open canvas of a fresh sheet of paper.

"Yes, Erik? Have you changed your mind? It doesn't matter if you don't want them here-"

"Put them in Box 5." Erik cut him off in that same, soft voice that sounded weak and defeated. Nadir didn't like it; he wanted to tell Erik that he was being stupid- he certainly felt stupid for allowing the very people that Erik needed to avoid come to the opera! "For my own personal joke. That is all that I will have to do with the de Chagny's visit to the Black Rose."

"What an odd sense of humour you have these days, Erik." Nadir muttered to himself, causing Erik to look up sharply to glare at him, but he didn't care. His friend was behaving oddly, and it didn't make Nadir feel any better about allowing such a foolish thing to go ahead, even though he had the power to stop it. "But yes, I shall place them in Box 5 if you really find that funny."

Nadir went back to his letter writing, still muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he wrote at the agonising pace of a snail, so Erik went back to his opera. He dipped the quill in the pot of glossy ink, faltering over the words so that a few shiny black tears fell from the quill and ruined the neat page. The once great, almost childish excitement to throw this opera onto the stage and to tell the stories of all his London employees to the world was fading rapidly in the wake of the conversation with Nadir, his mind now focused solely upon the fact that Christine would be in attendance. What if he failed in his attempt to leave her alone? He had just convinced Nadir that he didn't love the woman anymore, so he would be of no help- it was a nightmare situation that would soon become the sinister test as to whether he could truly leave Christine alone.

The last two years without her had been agonising. He had tried to stop himself from keeping an ember of hope alive inside him, knowing full well that he would never be rekindled into a flame of happiness and love. It was impossible; she would never love him, so the hope was futile.

I am a heap of ashes gone cold that no one can even be bothered to sweep, Erik thought bitterly as he blotted the ink spill and continued to write, she will never love me as I love her.

Sighing deeply and feeling tired, he forced himself to put his head down and continue with his masterpiece.

_**Meanwhile, in the South of France...**_

"_I am dying...of love. That is how it is...I loved her so! And I love her still... and I am dying of love for her, I tell you..."_

Applause filled the large auditorium; many taking to their feet to cheer and cry for more as the curtain fell, cutting off the scene of the Angel laying dead on the floor as a woman in a wedding dress kissed her new husband on the mouth, not even turning around to see the Angel die. Many were crying as they cheered and applauded the performers, their cheering increasing in volume as the curtain lifted again to reveal the cast taking their bow together. It had been a splendid performance; everyone had adored it.

Everyone but Christine de Chagny.

She sat in her seat, the tears cold on her face as her nails dug into the arms of the chair she sat in. She knew, of course, what that opera had been about. She knew who the mystery composer was. And now it was breaking her as she sat and listened to the others in the box comment on how selfish and stupid the woman in the story had been.

And it was true. The Angel may have kidnapped her the first time, but the second...he had saved her life. Yet still it had ended in the same way, with her weakness leading to heartbreak and sorrow.

Christine got up stiffly and went with the crowd she had come out with back to the carriage, feeling a dead weight in her chest where her heart should have been. There was enough scandal as it was with Raoul fathering an illegitimate son with Aurélie; she didn't want to be seen crying at an opera.

Soon she would meet with Raoul in England to attend an opera house that he was interested in- apparently the owner was a French millionaire with an extremely good sense for business, as the ticket sales had boomed practically overnight- and then he would journey onto Scotland as she went back to France. They rarely spent time together anymore, with him away on business trips and she alone in their home in the south. He was besotted with his son, his son that was the product of his own infidelity, and he spent every free waking moment with him and Aurélie- he knew that she knew about it, but he didn't seem to care anymore. Gone were the days of his pitiful apologies; now he seemed to delight in her knowledge of the whole ugly truth.

Christine was silent for the whole carriage ride home, feeling the stares of the others on her face as she lowered her eyes in a desperate attempt to ignore them. It didn't work, and she felt a wave of sudden relief sweep over her as the carriage stopped outside the de Chagny home. As soon as she was able, she ran up the path and into the house, ignoring the greeting smiles of the kindly servants and running straight to her bedroom, flinging herself onto the bed as she began to sob.

This wasn't right. Nothing was right. Christine felt her heart breaking and yet she had chosen this- _she had chosen this!_ What sort of a fool was she?

Driven by something she did not fully understand, Christine got up from the bed and crossed the room to the doors, opening them onto the balcony and stepping outside. Her balcony in Paris had looked onto the city, but here she could see vineyards and pretty little houses, even the faint glimmer of the sea in the distance. Then, feeling a sob catch in her throat, she shakily climbed up onto the railing of the balcony, clutching at the wall for support as she wobbled and shook, her knees so weak that she was scared that she might fall. But that was what she intended to do; fall and die. It was melodramatic and foolish but Christine did not care for anything but the fact that she was tired of living this life, exhausted of trying to pretend that this was what she even wanted.

Feeling tears streak down her face as she slowly closed her eyes, Christine straightened up and let go of the wall, standing on the railing with nothing to grip onto. She would do it. She would let herself fall.

"Papa, I'm sorry." She whispered. She held her arms wide and-

"Madame!"

Suddenly someone had their arms around her waist, dragging her down from the railings. She tumbled and fell on top of the poor maid who had come to her assistance, trying to scramble up as she heard the poor girl squeak in pain. Her head was pounding from the adrenaline rush, her heart speeding up to match the sickening throb, and she very nearly fell back to the floor again. She had nearly killed herself.

"Oh God." She whispered, the full weight of what she had nearly done now dawning on her as she began to sob. "Oh God!"

She let the maid fuss over her, put her to bed and lock the doors to the balcony, taking away the key so that she could not go out there again. Christine could do little more than lay there as the poor girl hurried around the room, sorting out her mess and putting things right. But no-one could put things right in her mind.

When Christine closed her eyes she saw only Erik's face, how he had looked when she had made her choice in the snow and the cold. She saw burning yellow eyes, pooled with tears, and she saw again how every hope in them had died.

The maid closed the door. Christine had never felt so alone in all her life.

And she had chosen it.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! So Erik's new opera is at last finished, ready for its London debut. I am going to try my hardest to fit in two updates today, if possible, as the next two chapters should really be one... but then it would have been stupidly long compared to the others. :-)**

**Thank you so much to the lovely people who reviewed this story; icanhearthedrums, You Are Love, Hugabouv, TMara, Filhound, Phanma (for several reviews), KitKat, Tangosalsa, paulagrandma and Haqyikah. Reviews are appreciated so much, so THANK YOU! :-)**

**Anyway, enough of my ranting, onto the story...**

**Twenty Four- I Should Have Known That You'd Be Here  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

Out of the black night blazed a light; a light so bright that the snow dusted buildings seemed to sparkle, as if covered with crushed crystals. A light so bright that the many carriages thundering through the dingy streets on the poorer side of London did not need their lamps to illuminate the gloom. A light that shone through the muck and the grime, beautifying the thoroughly working class part of the ruthless city so that the cobbles became precious stones and the bricks became dusted with stardust. That light came blazing out of the Black Rose Opera House, beckoning the hundreds of guests in on that chilling winter's night.

Christmas was already a distant memory, the New Year too fast fading in importance as the rich and the poor all journeyed through the light snow and bitter stinging wind to the opera, curious as to what this new opera of the season would entail. The details were vague, the mystery the allure more than the promise of breath taking music or a story that would have them all crying into lace handkerchiefs. All that was known was that it was composed entirely by the elusive owner of the opera house himself.

Erik stood at the window of the office, peering around a heavy red curtain to watch the queues of carriages and pedestrians arrive at the doors of his opera house, feeling his heart stutter each time a new carriage pulled up. Was _she_ here already? He didn't want to think about it; turning away from the glass and forcing himself to put the heavy fabric of the curtains back in place. Standing by the fire, holding a glass of something alcoholic, Nadir stood watching him with troubled eyes.

The foyer of the Black Rose was, just as the rest of the building was, architecturally brilliant. The gothic yet palatial stonework was similar to that of the Opera Populaire, a fact noted by many of the Lords and Ladies as they entered the beautiful room and looked around them with stunned eyes, though the colours were distinctly darker; mahogany, black and red. As their wide eyes took in the wonders around them, another couple swept into the foyer, surprising a great many of the other noble guests who immediately swarmed them like moths to a flame.

The grand, yet rather young, couple from France swept through the crowds with barely a murmur, greeted adoringly by staff yet not managing to smile or even acknowledge them. As they were led along various lavish corridors, being greeted by various other guests that they did not know, Christine lowered her head. Raoul walked beside her, his face set like stone and his jaw tense, and any time that their hands came close together, Christine could almost feel an invisible wall stopping her from reaching out to him. She knew it was silly, of course, but she did not feel at all comfortable in this place; the heavy atmosphere was clouding her head and the smell... it seemed similar, somehow.

Shaking her head slightly and touching her hair with a self-conscious hand, she fought to brush the thoughts away as she walked onwards, lifting her head and adopting a serene expression, with all the regality of a queen. Meg had called her that once; the Queen of the Opera Populaire. The memory alone of her golden haired friend, who had been more of a sister to her in truth, was enough to make Christine want to cry now. But she knew, with a sickening dread as she looked at the tightly controlled look on her _husband's_ face, that to do such a thing now would be suicidal.

She had learnt, over the last few years after her flit from Paris, how to please her husband. She knew that she had to keep quiet, look elegant, praise the de Chagny family and be the meek little wife Raoul desired beside him. She suspected that if she ever gave birth to a son- a legitimate heir- he would discard her fully, both publically and privately, but _that_ wasn't ever going to happen, with him always away on business or with his son and mistress. And whilst Christine desperately craved a child, just as she had all those years ago when her miscarriage had started the frightening spiral of confusion in Paris, she felt strangely glad that she hadn't produced an heir for Raoul, like a cow in the farmyard.

Her depressing thoughts were cut off when the staff stopped and announced, in flamboyant tones, that they had arrived at their box- Box 5. They were courteously delivered to their seats, the staff wishing them a pleasant evening, but Christine could do little more than flop down as the air left her body in a soft gasp. She knew that she was being silly but- _box 5?_ Shaking a little, she cursed herself venomously, irritated that she had already nearly fallen into a hysterical nightmare over the simple coincidence of being in box 5. Stop being such a fool, she thought bitterly as she began to play with her gloves nervously.

"What's wrong?" Raoul's voice was hard as stone and cold as ice, his eyes not drifting from the stage, where a group of dancers in black dresses with red roses in their hair had come on, starting to dance to the music of a small orchestra whilst people found their seats. As they twirled as spun, the elaborate skirts on their dresses flew out and looked a little like the layered petals of a rose, but Christine was so frozen by the chill in her husband's voice that she could not really admire the work of the seamstress.

"Nothing is the matter, dear." She replied softly, hesitantly, the 'dear' slipping out form habit more than anything. She saw him flinch, though, at the affectionate name and from no-where his hand found hers in the darkness, gripping onto it like a scared child clutching their mother. Christine didn't have the heart to drop his hand in disgust, as she truly wanted to do, and feeling the warm, soft skin in the darkness reminded her a little of a time in winter when it was snowing just like this, standing on the opera roof, promising to love one another and care for one another...

Her eyes returned to the stage momentarily, watching the dancers with fascination. They were far from ballerinas; they were strong girls, girls who had lived without following orders from their pompous husband without question. Christine envied them in that moment, glancing involuntarily at her ostentatious wedding ring and then at her husband, who still had looked at her.

The music, played by the small yet effective orchestra, sang its way through the excellently built auditorium up to box 5, the distinct darker side of the lively dance music complimenting the gothic architecture and dark decor. It was always there, even in the happier sounding chords and phrases of melody, something mysterious and haunting that made Christine tremble. Her frantic heart began to pound, speeding up by the second. She could feel each dizzying beat reverberate through her chest, making her feel sick as her stomach knotted in panic.

She was so tightly laced into the ridiculous, gaudy, yellow dress that Raoul had wordlessly given her a few days before that she felt as if her breathing ability was limited; the shallow gasps for breath became more frantic by the moment. Her make-up was gaudy too; her lips redder than the roses in the dancer's hair and the powder on her face so thick that she looked unearthly, but she knew that the frightened sweat breaking out on her forehead would soon wash away the pretence. Her mercilessly tightly pinned hairstyle didn't help either; her head felt as if it might split in two and she bit her bright red lip so hard that she could taste blood on the end of her tongue. The iron tang seemed to blast her out of the spiral of hysteria that she didn't even understand, or rather the spiral of hysteria that she didn't want to face. It was the memories of _him_, everything about this dark, gothic opera house- even the smell! It was throwing her back into the memories of how foolish she had been, and of how she had stood on the railings of the balcony, ready to throw herself into death to escape this maddening guilt.

Raoul had secured them rooms here in the opera house for tonight, before they went on their separate ways again, so there was no escaping this horrible atmosphere until tomorrow. Christine clenched her fists so hard that she could feel the sharp points of each individual nail cutting into the soft flesh of her hand; tomorrow could not come soon enough.

"Christine." Raoul's voice filled the silence of the box again, tearing her away from the dark music to look at him. He was actually facing her now; eyes oddly concerned as they looked down at where she was gripping his hand so tightly it was clearly hurting him. "You're behaving very oddly. Whatever is wrong with you tonight?"

"It's nothing." She replied with an uneasy laugh, trying to convince both him and herself. It didn't work- she sounded petrified, the laugh unnaturally high pitched even for her, the soprano. "It is a little hot in here, but once the opera starts I'm sure that I will be fine."

Raoul looked doubtfully at her, one eyebrow arched perfectly, but he didn't pursue the matter, turning instead to look around him at the impressive auditorium they sat in. On stage, the dancers were still twirling, their hair loose and tumbling as they swept around the stage in time to the captivating melody.

"It is rather marvellous, isn't it?" Raoul sounded a little wistful as he looked around him in awe, chuckling under his breath. Christine watched him with critical eyes- she had never really given much thought to Raoul's apparent love of the arts and opera, but then what else but a passion for such things would have allowed him, a Vicomte, to look past her less than satisfactory status and marry her? And he had been a patron of the Populaire- Christine wondered if Raoul would have preferred to have gone into management of an opera house given the choice, as opposed to being thrust into his family's business. Shattered dreams were enough to make anyone bitter. "I would never have thought that such a place would flourish- just look at the number of aristocrats here tonight! Only a genius could make such a place flourish in a slum and attract the rich..."

"Mm." Christine agreed without really listening. Her husband's mindless chatter would have been a welcome distraction from the eerie sensation within the Black Rose, but she could not force herself to concentrate, no matter how hard she tried.

"And it's all rather peculiar really, very dark and melancholy, but somehow not at all drab. I would have expected the gothic stonework to have caused an outcry- you know how superstitious people are regarding evil and darkness- but it only seems to add to the mystery of the place! It's all rather sophisticated. Why look, roses embossed into the wooden panelling! Can you see them, Christine? It's all rather beautiful. Dark, but beautiful."

Christine nodded faintly as he continued to drone on, as if he had just had an architectural epiphany, but she could not physically force herself to make any sort of verbal response. All the talk of darkness and beauty within that was making her head spin, the hot air of the room so stifling that she felt dizzy with it. As the dancers skipped off stage, clutching their skirts and grinning with honest joy, the first few chords of opera music blasted out from the orchestra pit. Relieved to at last have something to concentrate on, she slumped in her chair and tried to lose herself in the story.

As it happened, it wasn't at all difficult to do so, as the opera was stunning. At first, when a collection of performers came onstage in normal clothing, not even singing but talking to one another about nothing important, she felt her heart ache on behalf of the poor composer, thinking that the opera was going to be awful and the work of an amateur. But when the story unravelled, and when the first piece of breath taking music was sung, those pitying thoughts disintegrated.

The opera was based around the lives of the inhabitants of one poor street in London. The opera told of their woes, their joys, their hopes and their fates, as the opening narration so aptly put it. The actors did not need to act; it was real for them. It was obvious, from the real tears on their faces, or how their eyes sparkled as they sang their lines, that they had all contributed their own life stories to the opera- it was so much more than a story. Christine found herself absorbed into it, unashamedly crying when a character died, laughing at the rude jokes of the factory boys and clapping with all her might as a particular pair were married.

The songs themselves were vibrant and almost impossibly full of life, even the sadder melodies; it was all so real, full of human emotion, that no-one could possibly find fault in it. The stories were simple, the songs weeping with love and sadness and joy...it was the work of a genius.

As the final scene ended, the curtain falling into place to finish the opera, Christine rose to her feet and cheered like a young boy at a street brawl, along with countless other members of the audience. When she looked, even the Lords and Ladies- who had been a little horrified by the subject of the opera and the coarse language of the factory boys- were all applauding and crying and on their feet demanding more.

"I have never seen such a fine performance in all my life!" Raoul cheered as he too stood, clapping loudly and shouting 'bravo!' over and over until Christine wanted to hit him. "I would love to meet the composer of such a fine piece of work, but the man is a recluse. Perhaps that is why he can create such wondrous music- he clearly lives for it. Oh, I wish he would just allow me to see him!"

Christine found herself smiling as the actors and actresses came onstage for another bow, the applause rising to an even greater volume. They all looked a little bewildered as they took in the huge audience cheering for them; bewildered yet happy. She remembered her first performance at the Populaire singing solo; how she had been trembling with nerves, but as soon as the first chords of orchestral music had sounded, she had felt complete.

"It is a shame indeed that we cannot meet him." Christine agreed as she and Raoul left the box, meeting with another French noble family to head for the huge, ornate dining rooms, feeling her head clear once out of the gothic auditorium. "It was an amazing performance- I cried."

Raoul was silent for a moment, but then he took her hand again.

"And your tears are worth more than any others." He said softly, in that moment sounding like the boy she had fallen in love with. Dazed and confused, she stumbled blinding alongside him, not sure whether to be happy or sad at his apparent lapse back into the kind Raoul.

Meanwhile, far away from the pomp and ceremony of the dining rooms, the performers were celebrating as loudly as they could backstage, hugging and laughing and drinking alcohol straight from the bottles someone had produced out of nowhere. The joy in the air was due to relief more than anything, having given a 'flawless' performance according to Erik, who was also nearly bouncing off the walls in his happiness. He charged around the crowded, hectic atmosphere of backstage, congratulating everyone he came across with a handshake that nearly ripped their arms out of their sockets.

"Well done, well done! You sang like angels!" he praised Marianne and Daniel, who both flushed with pride- Daniel's ears went pink. Praise was rare and thus meaningful from their employer, whose musical abilities awed them both on a daily basis. "And Connie- dear God girl, you had every woman in the auditorium sobbing with your dying solo! Excellent!"

Connie, looking very out of character in her drab black dress and white powdered face, grinned at her employer and tweaked one of Daniel's pink ears with a teasing grin. This caused him to yell in protest, but Connie simply shot him a friendly smile.

"I did my best, Sir." She chirped, which made Nadir spin round from where he had been avidly talking to one of the dancers about the volume of the orchestra, reaching out to shake her hand with a shocked look on his face.

"Did your best?" he demanded, flabbergasted, which made Erik snort with laughter. "You were astonishing! You were all astonishing! Did you hear the applause- there were members of the aristocracy in that audience. You just performed to people related to the royal family! Be proud of yourselves- you were all magnificent!"

Erik decided enough was enough at that point and so put his hand over Nadir's mouth, making all the dancers giggle- that was nothing out of the ordinary- feeling a little light headed as he looked around at his celebrating employees. He had played the piano at the side of the stage, hidden as normal, and he had heard every perfect note and then the roaring applause. They had done the Black Rose proud, they had done him proud, but most of all they had done themselves proud. They had shown the richer people in society what they were capable of, as well as showing them the problems they wanted changing, and they had gone mad for them.

The poor and discarded had shown the audience tonight that status wasn't everything. It reminded Erik of his first days beneath the opera, where he had spent days on end playing on the discarded organ, delighting in each blast of majestic melody from those dusty pipes. It had instilled a belief in him that he still carried to this day; you didn't need to be rich, or beautiful, or privileged to create something wonderful. If only everyone in the world shared his opinion.

Whilst the performers headed for the dining rooms, to eat and mingle with their new fans- Erik wasn't about to keep them backstage all night; he loathed it that the performers never received the luxurious benefits of the guests- Erik and Nadir silently left them and headed back upstairs to the offices, lighting a fire and sitting back in the two armchairs in a state of blissful relaxation.

"You can go down to the dining rooms if you like Khan; mingle with the Lords and Ladies." Erik sighed, taking off his mask and letting the air get to his face. He was too tired to care that Nadir could see every hideous crevice and vein protruding from his taut, yellow skin. After a moment, he reached for the white mask and put that on, feeling the cool shiny surface and hating how it felt like home. "I don't mind. I'm hardly exciting company."

Nadir laughed, his own tired yet relieved face relaxed as he settled back in the chair, reaching for his alcohol but then deciding at the last minute not to. Being drunk at his age was not pleasant, as he had experienced only the other night after losing track of just how many glasses of the gorgeous drink he had consumed.

"No, no, I don't want to talk to those fools. I'll leave that to the performers." He said with a twinkly eyed smile, little crinkles at the outside corner of each eye. "Anyway, old friend, I think we can call that a triumph, don't you?"

"I suppose so." Erik nodded, his voice sounding disinterested. His eyes were distant, gazing away into nothingness, and Nadir could do little more than just stare in disbelief at his friend. Just a few minutes earlier he had been dancing around like a maniac, spewing congratulatory words like a fountain!

"Gods teeth, man, whatever is the matter with you now?!" Nadir demanded, glaring at his friend, whose distant gaze was starting to grate on his nerves. "You were raving just a moment ago- you were ecstatic! And now you decide that you can lapse into a sulky silence?! Well, I find that preposterous Erik and I demand an explanation!"

Erik was snapped out of his daydream by the Persians harsh words, grinding his teeth as he fought with the urge to slap the stupid man. No one could understand how bittersweet this all was. He got up from the chair and strode angrily over to the window, ripping away the curtain to expose the glass that was like a mirror in the darkness. Then he removed his mask again, staring at the hideous mess of flesh and veins and ugliness that made up a good half of his face. He could see Nadir looking guilty, his eyes sad as he watched him do this, but Erik didn't care for pity. He touched the rough skin with his soft fingertips and shivered in repulsion.

"How is this, Nadir?" he asked in a cold, unfeeling voice. "I always knew that beauty is not required to _create_ beauty...but how can this be? How can I create music that reduces women to tears, or write an opera that brings a whole audience to its feet, and not see a shred of it on my face? Surely there must be something...something even slightly pleasing about me- but there isn't! And I have to ask myself, even in times of such jubilation, _would the crowds adore the illusive composer if they knew that he looked like this?!_ Even when I remove my mask, Nadir, there is still one there. It will always be there! I will always be hiding from the world, even from my successes!"

He turned, almost accusingly, and as Nadir forced himself to look at his friend in the eye, he had to bite back the wince he always felt when looking at that unearthly face. He hated that he too, like everyone else, found Erik repulsive but it was the horrifying truth. He was ugly and he was deformed- but Nadir knew that his personality had improved a lot since the Phantom days. That was all that mattered- all that should ever matter.

"You only have to run and hide from everything because you're a wanted man." Nadir pointed out calmly, trying to be rational and reach Erik before he went on a rampage and broke something. "If you hadn't-"

"I know, Khan!" Erik bellowed, slamming both of his hands down onto the solid windowsill with a hiss of pain, harshly forcing the mask back into place and wrenching the curtain across again, feeling less exposed at once. "There is no need to be so foolish and point out what is so obvious to me! Don't you think I regret what I did, who I killed, every single stinking day?!"

"Well, that is surely a good thing then. It means that you are a better man." Nadir replied in an airy fashion, too tired to get upset over Erik's unfair anger. He was used to it by now, anyway. It had been a long, emotional day for everyone and Nadir would be willing to bet all his possessions on Erik's stress being down to a certain Vicomtess who was presently in the building. "Why don't you go to bed- try and get some rest? I am exhausted myself and I haven't done half as much as you."

Nadir waited for a response, which he knew he wouldn't get, before deciding to risk it by walking over to the window, where Erik was still stood, staring down at the sill. Nadir reached out and patted his friends arm, which made Erik jump, taken off guard.

"You've done well. Be happy." He said simply, before heading off to bed, leaving Erik alone at the darkened window.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Yay, two updates in one day! I'm not going to say much at all; I'm going to just let you read. Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated. :-) **

**Twenty Five- Beneath A Moonless Sky  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

Out of the darkness of a palatial bedroom inside the Black Rose Opera House, Christine de Chagny let out a wild, petrified gasp and shot up in bed, clutching the covers to her chest as she peered frantically around her, heart pounding in a sickening fashion. She could feel the tears and the sweat on her pink face, making her curls stick to her forehead, and her breath came in ragged gasps that she could not slow down. She furiously brushed the tears away, hating herself for being such a fool- it was her own fault, for working herself into a frenzy about the dark decor and the gothic architecture, not to mention the music-

Now she had nearly scared herself to death, waking from a dream that consisted of images circling relentlessly in her mind; images of the Populaire and the mask and _him_! It was terrifying, and as she sat in the darkness, her breathing still fast and frantic, she felt relieved to hear the steady breathing of Raoul beside her, thankfully still asleep.

It was the aura of this opera house- it was bringing back all the suppressed memories of her horror and terror as a 17 year old girl and also the true kindness he had shown her when her life had reached a point of no meaning. She gagged and curled in on herself, all the images of how he had looked in the snow- the very images that had driven her to kill herself- came swarming back without mercy. It burned like a red hot coal to even think of the day that she had made the most ridiculously weak decision of her life; the day that she had very nearly been killed. She owed her safety and her life to _him_, for she had not been approached at all by the Comte ever since that day, but now the nightmares from her days as a girl at the Populaire returned.

Feeling a breakdown threatening, Christine slipped out of bed silently, trying not to wake her sleeping husband, and she crept across the darkened room praying that there were no creaky floorboards in this new opera house. Her mass of dark curls fell down her back, a comforting feeling, a stark contrast to her white nightgown that made her resemble a ghostly bride as she silently crept across the room. She didn't know quite what she was doing, only aware that should she stay in that room a second longer, she might turn insane.

On reaching the door she decided to talk a walk to clear her morbid thoughts, hoping that the corridors would be lit. As she snuck out of the room without a sound, she met a darkened corridor. It was pitch black, doing nothing for her panicked breathing, but she promised herself that somewhere would be lit. It wasn't as if she could go back to bed- she was far too worked up.

The corridor was deadly silent and dark, so dark that she could barely even see her hand before her face, but Christine had fallen into a brief spell of madness. She repeated the idea that somewhere is this blasted opera house had to be lit over and over in her mind, like a mantra, and soon she was stumbling blindly through the corridor, groping the walls for support and to find her way. Her hands brushed the smooth wooden panelling that Raoul had been so complimentary of, occasionally snagging on nails for pictures or other rough surfaces that she could not identify. She kept stumbling and tripping over thin air, her cold bare feet unsure on the plush carpets.

A few times she froze in the darkness, unable to go on and deciding that she had to turn back, but she knew that in this darkness she wouldn't be able to find the room. But even then, the thought of just lying awake in that silent room when she was so terrified was too much to face. So she forced herself onwards, the mantra starting up again in her mind as she stumbled along, still groping the walls frantically.

After what felt like an eternity of blind stumbling and tripping over nothing, her shaking hands found a door handle. The glow of faint light under the door made her question what lay behind it, but she couldn't stand the darkness. She managed to open the door, nearly crying in relief as she found a dimly lit corridor behind it. Finding the light a source of comfort, she strode with more confidence through the corridor, choosing doors randomly and eventually coming to a staircase. She had no idea as to where she was going, but she didn't care, heading down the stairs and wincing as her bare feet met the cold metal. She found herself in what seemed to be the wings of the stage.

Christine walked out onto the vast expanse of dark stage, finding it eerie how dead the place seemed without laughter or music or even light. She found that, on the stage, she was alone again in the dark with only her troubled thoughts to taunt her without mercy, so she turned and began to walk back into the wings, seeking the dimly lit staff corridors again.

But then, as suddenly as the nightmare had hit her, came the sound of soft, beautiful piano notes, drifting out to her. She spun on the spot, searching wildly to find where the instrument creating that music could be on this empty stage, and she began to feel frightened again. It had to be coming from somewhere- but there was no piano on the stage!

Then, in that instant, the melody became that song from years ago, from a lair beneath the opera where she had blindly followed a masked man through a mirror- the song was Music of the Night. No!, she thought wildly, falling into another frenzy as she searched wildly to find that instrument and the person playing it, knowing that it could only be one person. He cannot be here, she screamed inside her head, he cannot be here!

Quite suddenly, and with a shriek to rival a banshee, she fell into the orchestra pit.

The sound snapped Erik, who had been playing his screened off piano to soothe his nerves, out of his musical trance and made him leap up from the stool, knocking it to the floor. What foolish woman was out and about at this time of the night? He was in his white mask, which didn't help matters, as by the sound of it the wretch had hurt herself. He couldn't go and change masks now. Cursing the woman, whoever she was, and breathing deeply, he made his way out onto the stage and headed for the orchestra pit. He would have been laughing, had he not been annoyed at how inconvenient this all was.

He strode across the dark stage, the lack of lighting not a problem for him and his near nocturnal vision. And he peered down into the gloom of the orchestra pit feeling only irritated, not nervous or unnerved. But when he did look down into that dusty pit, all his senses seemed to heighten as his heart smashed against his ribcage, the room feeling suddenly devoid of air.

It was Christine.

He recoiled from the pit, gagging and choking in his sudden burst of fiery pain, being thrust into her presence out of the blue. He had promised himself not to go near her, not to interfere, but how could he not now that she lay, possibly unconscious, after stumbling into his orchestra pit? What was it with the wretched woman anyway- did she have to crop up every three years in his life, like a pest or some nasty disease? Nadir was going to be horrified, Erik knew that for certain, but his only thoughts were ones of helping her as he jumped down into the pit, decision made.

His excellent vision meant that he soon found her, lying unconscious and clearly hurt just a few inches from where he had landed. Stepping across to where she lay in a white nightgown, her hair messy and tumbling wildly, he knelt beside her. Seeing her face again was a mixture of pleasure and pain, making him hover over her uncertainly for a moment, just looking at her. She was as beautiful as he remembered, not bruised for once, which made perhaps the only pleasant change from their last meeting. He reached out and touched her soft cheek before he could stop himself, feeling her warm skin and immediately wrenching his hand back. He was being disgusting, sat here just looking at her whilst she lay defenceless, and with that thought firmly in mind he checked her pulse and prepared to lift her, intending to take her back to the room he knew she was staying in with her pathetic little weasel of a husband.

But before he could take her into his arms and carry her out of the dark orchestra pit, she suddenly sat bolt upright and saw him, going almost instantaneously white with terror. Erik didn't know what he had expected her to feel, seeing him again, but pure, unadulterated fear was not what he had originally thought. Were they not past all that now? She had kissed him, for goodness sakes!

"D-dear God!" she trembled, cowering away from him and holding her hands up, as if to shield herself from him, her eyes wide and filled with undisputable terror. This stung Erik to the core, leaving him wordless and frozen, just staring at her with horror and disbelief. "Why are you- get back! Get away from me or I shall...I shall scream for help!"

She fell back in her attempt to get away from him, even going as far as crawling on her hands and knees to the furthest corner of the pit, blood dripping in a sinister trickle from her forehead down onto her pure white night dress, making her look scarily ghoulish. But Erik was fixated on her, trying not to laugh at her ridiculousness or cry at how beautiful she looked; in the white nightgown, with wild brown curls and wide eyes, just as she had been on the night of her first performance at the Opera Populaire.

"Christine." The mournful word fell from his lips before he could catch it, filling the empty silence for one mournful second. She closed her eyes, as if trying to blot him out, and he saw a tear spill down her cheek. His heart squeezed so painfully he felt as if he could barely breathe, reaching out to touch her arm. His hesitant fingers made contact with the soft, lacy material and she froze, wrenching her arm away and staring at him with wide, accusing eyes.

"Please." She whispered as those wide, brown eyes pooled with tears that Erik didn't understand. Why was she acting so afraid of him- he had done nothing remotely scary or obsessive to her since the night of Don Juan! It would have made him raging with anger, had he not already been on the verge of crying. "Leave me alone, Erik."

"I tried to, remember? Or perhaps in your utter madness you have forgotten that night where you chose to go to your _charming_ little husband over me?!" he hissed, hating how she was imploring him to leave her alone, as if he had kidnapped her and brought her here against her will. For one of the first times he could remember, Erik felt himself getting angry at Christine and not regretting the fact. "It is you that has come here! You who went wandering around after midnight in a place you barely even know and fell into the orchestra pit! I came here to rebuild my life after you shattered me again, and yet you follow me!"

He finished his rant, breathing hard as he knelt there on the floor, one hand still reaching out to her, as if imploring her to be reasonable.

"I didn't know that you were here- how could I have known?" she whispered, as if to herself. She sounded angry, but Erik couldn't tell if the anger was directed at herself or him. Either way, he felt crushed, her face leaving no doubt about her feelings; she hated him. Why else would she be so brutal with her words? "If I'd known, I would never have come here!"

Erik stared at her as she pulled her knees up to her chest, burying her face in her knees. But when she did this, burning pain from her head wound exploded across her forehead and she pulled back from her knees, seeing the bloody mark left behind and wincing in pain as she gingerly touched the wound. She gave a small, childlike whimper, making Erik immediately reach out to help her. It was like a reflex; seeing her hurt made him need to help her, his instincts telling him to stop her pain as she was the woman he loved with all his wasted, shattered heart. But she didn't want his help, brushing him away when he offered a hand to help her up.

"You're hurt, Christine, let me help you." he murmured, struggling not to let his annoyance at her stubborn ways come across in his voice. He stood up himself, making a move towards her, but she cowered away again. He gave an exasperated sigh. "You can't sit down here all night. For goodness sakes, just let me help you up!"

"Stay away from me- I mean it!" she hissed, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, her teeth chattering audibly. She could not take her eyes from the white mask, the mask that had haunted her dreams for weeks after the night of Don Juan. It gleamed in the darkness somehow, just as it always had, sinister and evil. "I don't want your obsession and your darkness! I- I'm married and- and I-"

His face froze, setting like stone and refusing to crumple when she said the word 'obsession'. He could feel rage bubbling under his skin, as well as the bitter sting of sadness, and he no longer wanted to hug her- he wanted to turn on his heel and leave her.

"Don't flatter yourself; I'm not trying to lure you away from your precious Vicomte! I just don't want strange women wandering around my opera house at ludicrous hours of the morning."

Christine froze. She felt a little surprised, and a little hurt, which she knew was ridiculous for she had just told him to leave her alone. She shifted awkwardly in the darkness, feeling hot tears well up and spill out onto her cheeks, wanting to just get out of this place and go home. But there was no such thing as home anymore, with Raoul being a beast and Madame Giry not even in France anymore. Erik was still staring at her, his eyes ablaze and smouldering in the darkness. He was tired; tired from stressing about upsetting her and finding that she was far more vindictive than he remembered.

"Don't look so surprised, Christine." He sighed, tired of sitting in the orchestra pit which already smelt, despite being brand new. He could feel exhaustion dragging down his heavy lids, and he had mountains of paperwork to do later; he was quite simply not in the mood to pander to a hysterical Vicomtess, no matter how much his heart was stuttering each time he looked at her. "My heart has been so pulverised in the last few years that I doubt it will ever be right again. But you're fine; with your rich husband and your make believe life, where you have never suffered any hardship. But just know this, Christine de Chagny; when he beats you again, or someone else decides to murder you, I am not going to run to your aid!"

Christine stood up sharply, despite the dizziness from her head wound and the shock of being face to face with Erik again. She probably wouldn't have been so hysterical if it were light and she hadn't just been blindly stumbling through dark corridors after horrible nightmares. But now anger was all over her face like a rash, and Erik found himself asking why she could only be brave when facing him- why had she never been able to stand up like this to the foul fop?

"If you're going to berate me, then please, just go away." She said firmly, though her lip was trembling and she looked closer to tears. Erik knew that something was obviously wrong with her, but he was far too angry now to try and decipher what that was. Cursing under his breath and then bellowing one out to the top of the opera house, he turned and stalked off, finding the correct keys on his belt for the door out of the pit, muttering under his breath and seething with anger the whole time.

He had just opened the door, preparing to slam it and storm off to bed without a care in the world, but then he saw Christine collapse to the floor, clutching her head. Despite the anger that was tearing through his body right now, and despite the harsh words they had hissed at one another, Erik found himself torn. He knew, with a certainty that annoyed him so much that he kicked the door with all his might, that he couldn't just leave her. His heart was throbbing painfully at the thought of leaving her there when she was so clearly hurt and upset. Before he even knew what he was doing, Erik had turned around and marched up to her, scooping her into his arms despite her weak protests. She had gone rigid, aside from her trembling, in his arms and she tried to wriggle free. But now he had decided what to do, Erik wasn't about to let her dictate him.

He carried her through the opera house, trying to ignore how she had started to cry in his arms, up the stairs and to his office, which was warm and bright with the fire still going strong. Her tears were mingling with the blood from her head wound, forming watery red trails down her cheeks, and Erik stopped one with his fingertips, looking into her eyes and imploring her to realise that...he wasn't even sure what he wanted her to feel.

He lay her down onto the large sofa in the corner of the room, stepping back and rummaging through various draws to find some sort of a cloth. He found not only that, but an old blanket that Nadir often drifted off to sleep under when he was supposed to be sorting through various letters and paperwork. He handed them over to Christine wordlessly, who took the items with a faint thank you, but did not take the petrified expression from her face.

"You...you should have left me there, Erik. I am perfectly capable of finding my own way out of an orchestra pit." She said softly, teeth chattering, but Erik felt his heart soar when he realised that this was due to her being cold, not through fear. He threw another log on the fire and took a seat opposite her, his eyes surveying her face carefully. Now in the light, he was glad to confirm with himself that there was no bruising, but she looked...Erik wasn't quite sure, but her eyes looked dull and she seemed nearer lifeless than anything.

"As you so clearly demonstrated." He sighed, exasperated again. "Listen to yourself, Christine. Would I have left you there? I have watched over you like a guardian angel, always making sure that you were alright, ever since you were seven years old. Little Christine Daae, who adored her Angel of Music...but then it all changed for you, didn't it?"

"Erik! You are not an angel! You lied- you kidnapped me!" she choked out, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. "But that was a long time ago. We don't need to talk about it now, please just leave it, Erik."

"But that is the problem, Christine! We never talked- we sang, I rescued you from your evil father in law, you sobbed to me about your disgusting husband and that was it!" he replied sadly, his eyes cloudy with tears. "Yes, I was a monster and yes I kidnapped and lied and did various other awful things that I will regret until the day I die- but I also set you free! Why will you not to the same for me?"

"You are free, Erik!" she yelled at him, confusion turning to anger.

"No. I never will be." He replied simply, firmly. He turned away from her, getting out of the chair and walking across to the fireplace, staring at the glowing embers and the orange flames that danced and licked at the logs, spitting and hissing. It hurt, to keep staring at the bright orange firelight, but he didn't want to turn around again.

Christine shifted on the sofa. The blanket was warm and smelt lovely, of Persian perfumes and herbs, and the cloth had wiped away all the sticky blood trails, getting rid of the iron stench and letting her relax a little. The room was warm and bright, but she didn't feel at ease. She felt awful for overreacting at seeing him again, remembering the things she had said and wincing at the thought. She was an idiot; but then she already knew that.

"Then...then why did you reveal yourself? Why did you take me down to your lair, show me your human form?"

This time he did turn around, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"You prefer being lied to, Christine?" he asked, scornful.

"No." She shot back, desperate for answers if she could get them. All thoughts of leaving before Raoul awoke and ensuring that he didn't wake to find her absent had gone from her head. She tried to make her voice less angry. "But if you had kept the lie...if you had gone on pretending to be my Angel of Music, demanding that I didn't marry...we would still be there, in the Opera Populaire, friends of a sort."

Erik looked at her for a second, assessing whether she was being serious. When he saw that she was, he barked out a laugh. It wasn't at all cynical; he was honestly amused by what she had just come out and said. Could she have been more ridiculous?! This seemed to annoy her though, as he tone became sharp again and she gave him a stern look.

"What?" she demanded as he began to laugh even more. "What is so funny about that?"

"Christine...you had always wanted me to reveal myself. The countless times I nearly did, hearing you as a child, begging for me to come out from wherever I was hiding to dry your tears, or to play with you. Even when you were older you still wanted to see me, rather than just hear me- perhaps you imagined that I would look like your father, or- I don't know. It tortured me to refuse you, but I knew that to show you my true self would be the beginning of the end." He paused and cleared his throat, as if reaching a particularly difficult part of the story. Christine waited, hanging on his every word. "When you were older, 17 years old, and the performance you gave at the Populaire shone like the very stars that light up the darkness- I supposed foolishly I now realise, that you loved me as desperately as I loved you. So I succumbed to your pleas...and, well, you know the rest."

Christine looked down at her clasped hands, seeing her wedding ring again and feeling a little sick at the sight of it. She did know the rest; the fear, the horror, the tears. Her own blindness and inability to look past his face had inadvertently turned him mad with rage, making him desperate to kill Raoul and force her into loving him. But he had been convinced that she loved him- Christine could not really remember much more than the fear of those days.

"But...but you understood my anger?" she whispered, her voice soft and soothing to his ears. "I had just discovered that what I believed to be an Angel, sent by my dead father, was in fact a fraud. It hurt, especially as I had considered that the Angel could have been my father's ghost..."

"But, Christine, was I really a fraud?!" he demanded, thumping his fist against the fireplace. "I may not have wings or a halo, but I still taught you to sing. I still comforted and consoled you. I still cared for you with- with all of my wretched heart! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Anything at all?!"

He turned to face her, his composure crumpling as tears sparkled like jewels in his eyes, ducking his head to hide them as he turned away from her. He felt like a fool, sobbing as she watched in horror, but to Erik's surprise Christine suddenly leapt up and ran to him, suddenly so overcome by the memories and the guilt and the sight of him crying over her that she too burst into tears and threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him to the floor with the sudden force of her crashing into him. He froze at first, not sure why Christine was now clinging to him and sobbing like a child, but then he buried his face in her hair and cried into the glossy brown locks, wrapping his arms fiercely around her, as if he could never let her go. They held onto one another, both crying like fools for all they had done wrong and all they wished to go right, and Christine gently reached out with one hand to touch his face, the unmasked side.

"Erik...it means the world." She said softly.

Those five words, softly spoken and unbearably sweet, seemed to hit Erik like a tonne of bricks. One moment he was stood staring down at her tear covered face in his arms, and the next joyous moment he had bent his head and kissed her on the mouth. She gasped and for one cruel moment Erik thought that she might push him away. But no- she pulled him closer and kissed him back with a fiery passion that made Erik feel lightheaded.

They stood together, in the flickering firelight, lips on one another's and tangled in an embrace that let them lose themselves. The sweet sensation of being together again, of kissing like this and not having to flee or run away in fear, was slowly replacing the pain each of them felt in their heart, drifting into a dreamlike sensation where nothing quite seemed real. As each kiss and every sigh slowly broke down the barrier between them, Christine began to tentatively undo the buttons of Erik's white evening shirt, his jacket already tossed aside.

He froze. What was she doing? Erik tried to ignore the nervous thud of his heart as Christine did not stop. She undid every button, allowing her cool hands to trace small circles on his frail, skinny chest, and sensation that went through him was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Her hands felt like ice upon a burn; pleasure and relief all mixed with pure ecstasy. The heat of the embrace seemed to grow.

Then, in a swift movement that made nearly made Erik choke, he felt Christine guide his hands to the ties of her nightgown. Now he was really sweating- why was she doing this? Erik felt so torn between what he wanted and the fear of tainting her with his ugly self that he stopped, hands frozen in place, and she looked up at him. She smiled, such a beautiful smile...so then he began to undo the ties.

To Erik, or Christine, no melody could be sweeter or more powerful than what passed between them that night; nothing could have equalled its beauty. Once it was over, and she lay asleep, Erik cried into her hair and held her close, not quite believing that she had...that they had...

"Christine, I love you." he whispered, and put his arms around her, not sure of what the morning was bound to hold but also too happy to care. This was all he wanted; this was a dream slowly turning to reality...

The night drifted and slowly became morning, and when Christine de Chagny awoke she sat up with a start, her heart racing. Her mind was reeling as she felt someone's arms around her. What was- and then the memory of the previous night hit her and her heart began to race.

Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping man next to her, she slipped from his embrace and fell silently to the floor, kneeling by the sofa and staring at his peaceful, sleeping face. She couldn't quite believe what had happened the previous night...and yet it _had_ happened.

"Erik." She whispered, touching his surprisingly soft face with a gentle hand. The feeling that ripped through her body when she touched his cheek, the memories of last night that flooded her mind...she couldn't go back to Raoul. She physically couldn't. Not when she felt like this- he had his mistress and son now, didn't he? Christine grabbed her night dress from where is lay on the other side of the room- she blushed at the thought of how it had gotten all the way over there- and also Erik's jacket, which she draped over her shoulders before silently sneaking over to the door and creeping outside.

It was still dark, which she hoped meant that it was early and Raoul would still be asleep. If she could somehow collect her things from their shared bedroom and return to Erik then maybe Raoul would be happy to leave her, letting her stay with Erik! If he even wanted her after all the stupid things she had done.

She shut the door silently, so as not to wake Erik, and she had only taken two steps when a very confused voice whispered her name. She heard the voice- she knew who it was immediately. Feeling sick, she turned around to face her husband, who was standing about two metres away, looking horrified. His face went from shocked to seething with anger, whilst hers was simply terrified.

Raoul was frozen to the spot. He had awoken to find his wife out of bed, so had gone looking for her, and this was what he found? Christine in her nightgown, her hair a complete mess, another man's jacket around her shoulders and the fact that she had just come out of someone else room?!

"Christine. What. Have. You. DONE?!" he hissed, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. His voice remained in a whisper; conscious of the other sleeping people, but his eyes were those os a maniac "You disloyal, scheming witch! How could you?!"

"What did you just say to me?" she hissed back, also not wanting to awake anyone and for once far too angry to just submit to his bullying. Oh, why hadn't she done this earlier?! "How could_ I_ possibly be unfaithful?! You dare say that to me when you have a son with another woman- you spend every waking moment with them Raoul! You have slept with so many women since we were married and several before, I am sure. You have all this on your conscience and you dare to accuse ME of being the disloyal partner in this marriage!"

"Do not speak to me like that!" he said, shaking her again with such force that it hurt. "And do not pretend that you are innocent- what about Erik?!"

Christine gasped, feeling the blood leave her face as she stumbled a little. How could he-? How did he know that she-?

"Erik?" she whispered, feeling suddenly as if she might faint.

"Yes, I found your little letter to him, all those years ago when you were persuading me to let you stay in Paris when I went to the South!" Raoul sneered, looking triumphant as he threw this in her face. Christine nearly fainted in relief; he didn't remember that Erik was the masked man who had terrorised them both at the Populaire. "_Oh Erik, my husband is leaving the city, oh Erik, the window will be open for you to come to my bedroom and ravish me, oh Erik! _Well, Christine, I chose to ignore that because I loved you! But this is how you repay me?!"

"You LOVE me?!" Christine burst out in anger, slapping him across the face. "Don't say that to me, not after all you've done to me Raoul! You dare to tell me such a...such a lie after all that has happened?! I wish I had never married you! I wish that I had chosen the Phantom over you that night- he may be disfigured on the surface but you are disfigured on the inside! I HATE YOU!"

There was a moment's silence, Christine panting for breath and glaring as Raoul, who looked like a tensed spring. A second passed. Then suddenly she was tossed over his shoulder and he began to march down the corridor.

"No! NO!" she beat at his back, struggling to get free. "Put me down, PUT ME DOWN!"

But that was when he stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth and went through another door, leaving the corridor suddenly silent.

Much later, when Nadir burst into the room and yelled a curse seeing Erik sleeping there on the sofa with various items of clothing lying around the room, Erik was roused expecting to see Christine. But she was gone. He sent Nadir to check her rooms, frantic, tears welling up in his eyes and he dressed quickly and hurried down the corridors to join Nadir in the now empty rooms that the de Chagny's had been staying in. But she was gone.

"She left me. She didn't love me- she left me! Again!"

It took Nadir the whole morning to get the story out of the now hysterical Erik, and then the afternoon to stop him from threatening to do various things, such as burn down the Black Rose or kill himself. They sat together that evening, in silence, both thinking that Christine de Chagny was the worst kind of woman that could walk the earth. Of course neither of them knew the truth- why would they?

All Erik did know was that he had loved Christine de Chagny, and now she was gone. Again.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Sorry for the lack of updates- I have been stupidly busy! There will be no updates next week either, as I am on holiday, but after that they should pick up again :-). **

**Thank you so much to all the lovely people who reviewed this story; Marie CP, a Guest, Moongrl088, Tangosalsa, Anna, icanhearthedrums, Haquikah, a Guest, TMara, Hugabouv, KitKat, Phanma and You Are Love. I hope, despite poor Erik's predicament, that this story is enjoyable :-)**

**Twenty Six- No Compassion Anywhere  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

It was only two weeks after the opening night of the new opera when the dizzying happiness and jolly atmosphere within the Black Rose began to fade, wilting miserably as exhaustion and irritation began to grind down the energy of every performer. Every night, the show would run flawlessly and every dancer, singer or actor would shine; backstage was a different story.

Nadir had suffered ripped clothes and even a black eye as he had broken up several fights, and the number of empty alcohol bottles that had been found littered around without a care in the world was alarming. It was as if the full realisation of how much enthusiasm it took to work in the opera was finally dawning on the tired Londoners, who were starting to abuse the sympathetic management of their employer as a result. The full horror of what was occurring finally dawned on Erik, despite several verbal prods from a grumpy Nadir, when he was rehearsing with the singers and orchestra.

Erik knew, as he stood a few metres away from his singers, watching in disbelief and listening in complete astonishment, that he was to blame for this lapse in effort. Ever since the opening night, when _she_ had loved and left him, it was as if there was a black cloud hanging ominously above him, tainting everything so that he could barely even muster the energy to get dressed in the mornings. He despised it, this weakness that was beginning to control everything he did; it wasn't as if he had never been shattered by the stupid girl before. But this time it was different; Erik had seen the affection in her eyes, felt the beat of her pounding heart, heard the misery in her voice as she sobbed onto him- and she had still left him.

Gritting his teeth and forcing his back to straighten, he lifted his eyes from his dull shoes and lingered on the orchestra, wincing at the painful shriek of _something_ that was out of tune. Why could those apes not tune their instruments for once? And why on Earth was Marianne not even singing the correct notes? With an enraged yell, Erik suddenly made a slashing motion with both hands, his patience worn down completely.

"Stop, stop, STOP!" he bellowed in a near hysterical voice. All the musicians looked up in alarm, the music grinding to an ugly halt, their eyes wide with confusion. Erik had to turn away from their honestly confused faces, only finding that Marianne, Daniel and Connie were also looking unsure. Erik felt as if he could explode; how could they not see what was so disgustingly wrong with that hideous performance? "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

There was a brief moment of silence as everyone looked hesitantly at one another, trying to urge someone to face their clearly angry employer.

"That was the opening number, Sir." Connie ventured as everyone else cringed away. Her voice was quiet, soft, a sign that she too was shaken by Erik's sudden outburst.

"That...that _DISGRACE_ that I was just forced to listen to WAS NOT the opening number!" Erik yelled, frustration making the words ugly and harsh. He began to pace, maddened by the ignorant looks on their pale faces. "Marianne; what happened to the high G?! You're meant to be a soprano; that note should be effortless! And you, Daniel, you were slouching and yawning and-! Connie, you are meant to be dying in this opera; wipe the smirk from your face and sing with some sincerity, for goodness sakes!"

Erik stared at each of them in turn, feeling his face flush red with the exertion of that crazed rant, but also from the bubbling anger he could feel under his skin. Connie looked annoyed; her eyes slits as she opened her mouth to say something, but then someone in the orchestra pit sniggered. Slowly and menacingly, Erik turned round and fixed his eyes on the miserable collection of imbeciles in the pit, clutching their instruments and gawping at him with sudden fear. He advanced slowly towards them, each drawn out step a threat. Once at the edge of the stage, he looked down at them, turning his wrath onto them entirely.

"I don't know why you're laughing." He intoned softly, dangerously, before exploding. "YOU WEREN'T EVEN IN TUNE! HOW IS ANYONE EXPECTED TO SING ANYTHING EVEN VAUGELY DECENT IF THE BUMBLING COLLECTION OF IDIOTS IN THIS ORCHESTRA CANNOT EVEN GET THEIR INSTRUMENTS IN TUNE?! MR TANNER! DO NOT JUST- oh dear God, you have to LISTEN to your instrument! You cannot simply fiddle with the tuning pegs and expect your cello to sound like anything other than a dying cat! Are you all incompetent?! Because after hearing you all play flawlessly every single night, I thought otherwise!"

As Erik jumped into the pit and began to tear around like a crazed obsessive, grabbing each instrument and tuning it with a snarl at the musician who owned it, he felt a little stab of guilt. It wasn't anyone's fault that the Black Rose was astounding popular, or that they were all being worked to the point of collapse. Nor, Erik reminded himself as he rescued a violin whose strings were at the point of snapping, was it anyone's fault that he had been trodden on and broken by Christine- again. He had hoped that Nadir would have left him to wallow in depression, resurfacing through the composition of several melancholy arias which he could then burn and forget, but the old fool had only made the whole situation worse.

On the day after Christine had fled from him, as he had lain weeping like a fool in his rooms, Nadir had come barging in, yelling and ranting and pulling him up out of bed with an excited glint in his eyes. The conversation from that day was burned into his brain, imprinted there forever, and Nadir was sporting a bruised arm for all his pitiful efforts.

"_Erik- get up! I have exciting news! We've had a complaint!"_

"_Khan, you are clearly drunk. Go away and find someone else to pester."_

"_No, Erik, this is important! A Lord and Lady who were staying in a suite just opposite the room that you and Christine...er...spent the night together in complained that two people were having a loud argument and using foul language in the corridor before seven o clock in the morning!"_

"_And this is important because...?"_

"_Erik. Two people- a man and a woman, they said- having an argument in that particular corridor. Don't look so blank, you fool. It could have been Christine and Raoul! Perhaps he saw her sleeping in your arms, or maybe she finally told him that she didn't love him...who cares?! But Erik; if that was the de Chagny's arguing, I would bet this opera house that Christine did not willingly leave you."_

Of course, Erik had hit him. The old fool had clearly been delirious. Christine de Chagny had left him that night because he was an ugly night lover who could clearly never satisfy her needs for a handsome face and a huge manor in the sun. But now Nadir refused to leave the matter; he was already insanely busy with paperwork and trying to publish more of Erik's music through Jean Thiland, and now he was playing at being a detective. It didn't help that Nadir had been Head of Police back in Persia- the old fool was still paranoid because of it. Nadir was as stubborn as a mule when he so desired; he had dismissed every single protest or concern that Erik had voiced, continuing to work himself to exhaustion, and even after collapsing one night from lack of sleep he was _still_ racing around like a lunatic.

"Now that, at last, we have a fully tuned orchestra, perhaps we can perfect our singers, also?" Erik asked almost sarcastically, climbing with ease out of the orchestra pit and dusting down his black trousers. "I would appreciate it if you three could sing as if you care. I know that we are all tired and at our wits end with mind-numbingly tedious rehearsals, but if you are not perfect in rehearsal, you most definitely will not be perfect onstage. Now. From the first chorus, please."

Erik heard the surge of music from behind him, nodding in approval as he noted that it sounded good once again, motioning to the conductor- who looked half asleep- to lower the volume a little as the three began to sing. Connie looked fed up, but at least she wasn't smiling and waving her arms around, and Daniel looked amusingly focused on keeping his back straight, staring resolutely up at the endless rows of empty seats. Erik kept his eyes, once satisfied with the other two, firmly on Marianne. She closed her eyes with the concentration, building up to the crescendo, opening her mouth to sing the angelic note-

But that was when a high pitched, ugly scream of fury resounded around the auditorium, echoing almost eerily as the orchestra faltered and Marianne clutched her throat, wondering if she had somehow generated that ugly sound. But Erik knew otherwise; he recognised the voice well. Already cursing, he began to run off stage and round to the practise rooms, Connie following as she too knew who had voiced that unpleasant bellow.

As expected, inside the practise room stood the dancers, all clustered around two girls who were facing one another, faces twisted into provoking snarls. Connie began to laugh as she saw that Violet was the one with the bloodied nose and that her opposition, another blonde, was apparently unscathed. She made for the pair of them, but Erik fixed her with a stern glare that implied grave consequences should she dare join in the fight. With Connie at bay, and sulking, Erik clenched his jaw and strode up to the cluster of cheering girls.

"LADIES!" he bellowed, storming into the huddle and placing himself between the two red faced, irate women. Violet, as always, looked ready to kill someone. "I thought I had already established that my opinion on my employees fighting is highly negative! But due to the fact that you all seem to be oblivious, I will repeat myself; I DETEST SEEING MY PERFORMERS BEHAVING LIKE THUGS!"

The other dancers, who had been crowding the fighting girls like vultures around a carcass, all went a painful red and slunk away, fearing the wrath of both Violet and their employer, but Violet and the other girl stood trembling with anger. Erik fought to recall the other girl's name, remembering at last that she was called Alice- she had been a flower seller. Her delicate features and moonbeam white skin were twisted into a grimace, and the blood trickling from Violets nose proved that her beauty did not mean that she couldn't defend herself.

"I understand, of course, that we are all exhausted." Erik said in a strained voice, the words becoming too familiar. "But that does not excuse mindless violence and inappropriate fighting! What could possibly be so bothersome about coexisting like normal human beings?!"

Alice appeared to have the same bold personality as Connie- perhaps that was what had aggravated Violet in the first place- as she simply put her hands on her hips and faced Erik with a challenging stare, her icy blue eyes narrowed with irritation.

"Mindless abuse should not be tolerated, _Sir_." She retorted coldly, twisting the polite address into a mocking insult. Her defiance was disrespectful and rude, but Erik did not have the energy to reprimand her for it. "Perhaps you should be interrogating that loudmouth instead of me! I shouldn't have to suffer her insults- she treats us all as if we were vermin!"

"You _are_ vermin; though even rats have a greater dancing ability than you!" Violet snarled, her eyes sparkling with malicious delight as Alice clenched her fists warningly. "That's all you are; a stupid, worthless rat that cannot even-"

"BE QUIET!" Erik roared, forcing them both to lapse into silence as he clenched his own fists. He fixed them both with looks dripping with contempt, making it perfectly clear that he was in no mood for childish arguments and petty insults. "Why is it that the ladies of this opera house always seem to fight?! Perhaps it is because you are all jealous of one another? If that is the case, I suggest that you work on improving yourselves, not killing the competition. Besides, you are all talented and have created a sensation throughout the city; why can't you just be happy with that amazing success and the wonderful talent you all so clearly possess?!"

"Yes, you're talented Violet; talented at being a brainless lout!" Alice sneered. Perhaps the girl had simply not expected Violet to respond the way she did; Erik certainly didn't. Or maybe she had a death wish. For as soon as those dangerous words were out in the open, Violet let out an enraged roar and charged. She knocked the astounded Erik to the floor- he had to hold onto his mask rather than break his fall with his hands- and ran at Alice. Both girls tumbled to the floor, kicking and screaming like wild animals fighting over the last scrap of meat. Erik scrambled up, nursing his sore arm and watching in horror as he contemplated how on Earth he could separate the two dancers, but then suddenly he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Why not use the favourite technique of the Opera Populaire?"

Suddenly a bucket of ice cold water was dumped over the fighting girls, who suddenly screamed and leapt up, soaked to the skin and looking pathetic. Their hair was now a straggly mess and their clothes were drenched, dripping miserably onto the floor. The dancers, who had continued to watch from the doorway, all burst out laughing and Violet screamed at them to be quiet, hurling both shoes at them and provoking further laughter as both landed in a soggy heap several metres away from the intended target. Even Erik was struggling not to laugh.

"Go and clean up, both of you." He ordered in a calm voice, though it was painful to fight back the smirk on his face. "Then you must get back to rehearsals. Tonight's performance will seem especially important, I am sure, due to the presence of royalty in the audience. You will not want to make a mess of your dance in front of such distinguished guests."

Once the squealing girls had fled from the practise room, Erik turned and embraced Antoinette with a smile, releasing her only to be pounced upon by a laughing Meg, who kissed his cheek and patted his shoulder. Henri was toddling around on shaky legs, laughing as he toppled over, and Erik felt his heart soar at the sight of the adorable little boy.

"Quite a feisty collection of women you have dancing for you, Erik." Antoinette commented drily, the ballerina in her looking and sounding horrified by the complete lack of order and respect. Paris trained and perfected, Erik knew with a smile that she would be horrified by anything less than the strict ways she had enforced at the Opera Populaire. "I now can understand why you wrote me such a panicked letter when you first arrived in London. Are they a disaster?"

Erik looked up from the young child he had lifted up for a cuddle, grinning. Little Henri would be two in April and Erik could not believe how much he had grown- he wasn't really 'little Henri' anymore. No longer was he a weak little newborn; he had his mothers blonde hair and blue eyes, he was talking a little and he had toddled up to Erik before demanding to be lifted, so Erik could guess with a sentimental sigh that he would soon be causing havoc. He was surprised, as he sat down on the floor opposite the little boy and let him play with his gloves, how wonderful it felt to hug and care for a child. The look of joy on Henri's face made Erik feel warm and content in ways that he had never experienced. It made him wonder if he would have been a good father, had he not been ugly and hideous so that no woman would ever marry him.

"No, Antoinette, they're surprisingly good dancers." He said warmly, eyes still focused on Henri, watching his eyes light up as he put his hand into the far too large gloves. "Everyone is very tired at the moment. My new opera has proved far more popular than anything else we have ever performed here, and every night the seats are packed. We cannot have one night's break, because we are in such demand that it would be disastrous."

"So that explains why those two dancers were fighting like dogs." Antoinette sniffed, making Meg giggle. "You know, when I was a young dancer at the Populaire, I was friends with a young stable lad who cared for all the carriage horses. He said that the stable master would tip buckets of water over the elder lads, who would regularly arrive at work drunk. Your dancers are no better than drunken stable boys. That is ridiculous, Erik!"

Erik chuckled at the woman's outrage, seeing Meg roll her eyes a little. Despite Antoinette's outrage at the behaviour of his dancers, it was clear to see that she was in good health and spirits, as were Meg and Henri. He hadn't seen them in some time, and the fog of depression had been temporarily lifted by their well-timed visit.

"Where is Nadir, Erik?" Meg asked, sat on the floor opposite him, just behind Henri. Anyone else would have looked at them, happily sat together and watching the toddler, and thought that they were the parents of the child, but Erik knew that his friendship with Meg was worth far more than love. Love so often led to pain and heartbreak, whereas their friendship would last all of their lives.

"Oh." Erik gritted his teeth. "He is out and about in London, trying to send more of my music to France and also trying to be a detective. The old fool is just wasting his time, though. He will find nothing."

"What do you mean?" Meg asked, curious, and Erik cursed himself as he remembered that neither Meg nor Antoinette knew about Christine- why would they? Now he had walked into a trap and would have to tell both of them that Christine had insulted him, slept with him and then fled.

It was a little satisfying to see the horror leap across both Meg and Antoinette's faces as they called Christine terrible names in response to the tale. Erik told the story with growing confidence, feeling better for pouring out all of his emotions. He did not mention, however, that the night spent with the wretched woman had been the best night of his pitiful life; he had never known that such emotion or pleasure could exist. But he hadn't kissed her first, or ripped at her clothes; _she_ had done that. Erik felt a cold stab of something in his stomach as he realised that she had probably used him to make herself feel better, to rid herself of innocence. Why the abusive fop was still preferable over him, he didn't know.

But then Erik made the mistake of explaining Nadir's harebrained theory. He had forgotten, in the exhilarating rush of telling someone everything he felt, that Meg had been scarily adamant that he and Christine should reunite back in Paris, and now it seemed that his words had reawakened that within her.

"Well if course that arguing couple was Christine and Raoul!" she said hotly, ignoring Erik's groan of protest. "He probably found her, yelled at her and carted her off back to France! You know what he is like; controlling, power hungry, abusive... the idea that his wife even dared to be unfaithful, despite the fact that he has slept with countless other women, would have tipped a chauvinist like Raoul de Chagny over the edge. Don't be such a stubborn fool, Erik."

"Meg, I appreciate your kind assumption, but there is still a fundamental lack of evidence." He retorted in a firm voice, seeing Meg's pretty cornflower blue eyes harden. "Why would Christine have gone into the corridor, or why would her fop husband have ventured into that room? Why didn't I hear the argument?"

"You didn't hear any argument at all, and you know that one definitely occurred because you received a complaint!" Meg shot back, looking smug. "You must just be a heavy sleeper, Erik. Or perhaps you were so tired from that _passionate _night-"

"Meg!" Antoinette snapped, her cheeks turning pink.

"-that you slept right through it." She concluded happily, reaching for Henri before he toddled off to the piano and destroyed some important sheet music. "I think you're just creating problems, Erik."

"And if I am, don't I have the right to be doubtful?!" Erik asked, standing up and walking across the room, his head spinning and his eyes filling momentarily with tears that he did not understand. "Christine has hurt me several times before, Meg; I have no reason to think that she would not do it again."

Before Meg could dive back into the argument, someone knocked on the door and came barging straight in. Erik turned, expecting to see Nadir, but instead he was greeted with the sight of a red faced boy, gasping for breath as he hunched over and leant on the wall. Erik felt his eyes narrow as he took in the intruder, not recognising him as an employee.

"Hello. Would you mind explaining who you are, and why you have come barging into this room?" he asked coldly, earning a disapproving tut from Antoinette.

"Yes...sorry Sir." He gasped, his breathing slowing as he caught his breath and straightened up. "Are you the owner of this opera house and a friend of a Mr Nadir Khan?"

"I am indeed. Why?" Erik asked harshly, only just managing to stop himself from pinning the pathetic little wimp to the wall and demanding that he hurry up.

"Ah. Well, Sir, I am sorry to inform you that Mr Khan has been mugged and is presently in hospital with his injuries. Luckily the police were on a wander around that area anyway, so the men didn't kill him, but they didn't catch them either." The boy looked at Meg and Antoinette, before turning back to Erik. "Mr Khan asked me to fetch you. I have a carriage waiting-"

"Yes, yes, I'll be out in a minute." He growled in reply, passing the boy a coin and practically shoving him through the door, slamming it shut and whirling round to face the astounded Meg and Antoinette. "So the brainless fool has gone on a stroll and nearly been killed. He is indeed an excellent detective."

Meg looked concerned but Antoinette put a hand on her daughters shoulder, restraining her.

"I suggest that you go to Nadir, Erik." She said calmly. "And do not berate him- I suspect that he will be in pain and a little embarrassed already at being attacked. Be nice."

Erik snarled a reply before charging out of the room and down the corridor, going out of the staff entrance and crossing a small courtyard to find the messenger standing beside a carriage. He got inside without a word, his brooding silence so ominous that the boy had the sense not to attempt small talk.

Erik stared out of the window as the carriage rumbled along, watching the groups of barefoot children playing in the grime, or the exhausted women with screaming babies in their arms as they carried washing or water from pumps. The conditions were disgusting and horrific; Erik did not need to wonder why someone had mugged his clearly wealthy friend. Of course, he wished that he had been with Nadir, so that he could have fought the assailants off; perhaps even kill them if they had truly hurt him. But try as he might, Erik could not find the murderous anger that usually bubbled up inside him when someone hurt the people he cared about; he kept thinking of those barefoot, dirty, hungry children.

The hospital was unpleasant; guarded by starch Sisters and a fierce Matron, whose hawkish eyes kept watch over him as he was led to a disgruntled, bandaged up Nadir. It would have been comical, seeing Nadir sat in the uncomfortable bed under stiff white sheets, if he hadn't been bandaged and bloody. Erik swallowed the bile at the back of his throat as he made his way over to his friend, realising in that moment how worried he had really been for Nadir's safety. The nurse who was dabbing at a gash on his forehead looked up and smiled at Erik as he approached, moving away to let them talk. He took a seat on the chair by Nadir's bedside, feeling strangely annoyed.

"Nadir, whatever blockhead did this to you deserves death. But why didn't you fight back, you fool?! Were you not the head of police? Did you not save me from the murderous Shah?" Erik shot his accusations at Nadir in one fiery burst. "For goodness sakes, Khan, you aren't incapable. Or maybe you are."

"It's so nice to know that you care." Nadir replied drily, wriggling in the bed as he tried to get comfortable. Erik let out a growl of irritation as Nadir winced in pain, reaching out to grab Nadir by the shoulders and force him to sit still. This made Nadir wince too, so Erik let go, suddenly feeling terrible. "Most of the damage came from the fall, when they let go of me to run from the police. The nurse thinks that I've broken my arm and sprained something or other in my leg, though I highly doubt it. The rest are just cuts and bruises- nothing that won't heal in time."

Erik took this in with a deep, steadying breath. On hearing the details of Nadir's injuries, the thoughts of poor children had left his head. Now he did feel murderous anger, and knew that should he lapse in self control, he would fly into a rage and break something.

"So, Khan, did you see your attackers? Or were you too busy not fighting back?" he demanded in a flat tone. "And what did you do to advertise yourself to some street thugs?"

"I don't think that they were simple street thugs, Erik." Nadir replied distantly, as if he were still thinking it through. "I think that they were paid to attack me, and that they were supposed to kill me."

"_What!_ Khan, I don't think-"

Nadir lowered his voice, peering around him at the busy nurses and other patients, before grabbing Erik by the collar and pulling him in closer, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Erik regretted the 'incapable' insult when he heard Nadir's reasoning, immediately knowing that he was right.

"I was followed, Erik. I posted your music scores and then set off to the docks, trying to find someone to ask about the de Chagnys- please don't get angry, let me talk- and I knew that they were following me. They knew who I was." He said quietly. "Erik, we have been fools. Stupid fools. You saved Christine from the Comte's hired thugs, helped her flee to the South, and the Comte never uttered a word. He must have known that someone saved Christine from his hired attack- how else would she have survived? Also, when you went to beat the Le Montier brothers within an inch of their lives, they saw you and ran. How did they know who you were?!"

"Nadir, I don't quite-"

"Erik." Nadir said softly, almost urgently. "I don't know how, but I think that the Comte knows that you were the one who foiled his plan- he knows that you know about his murderous intentions. Whether he wants to try and kill Christine again without you in the way, or wants to silence you forever, I think that it is safe to say that this is the Comte's doing. He wants you dead."

Erik was silent. It was true that they had been fools- of course the Comte would have been suspicious that a gun went off and yet Christine had turned up, alive and well, in the south. And the Comte did use hired thugs- that was his way of going about unpleasant business. But why was this happening _now_? He had saved Christine from her evil father in law years ago...and how had the vile Comte found him?!

Before he had the chance to bring that worrying thought up with Nadir, the nurse returned and told him that he had to go now, leaving Nadir in hospital overnight. Erik left without a word, glad to escape the hospital and the firm look in Nadir's eyes.

He walked home to the Black Rose, the darkening sky and the gloomy streets making him paranoid, expecting an assassin around every corner. But he made it to the Black Rose unharmed, notifying everyone of Nadir's condition before seeing Meg and Antoinette to rooms, leaving them as quickly as he could and not telling them about this apparent threat. He would have to encourage them to leave soon- he didn't want to risk them getting hurt.

Lying awake in his bed and unable to sleep, Erik made the promise to himself that he would not run away from this problem, as he often did. He would not flee and hide; he would remain in London, with his employees and in his opera house. He liked his new life, despite the constant ache of his heart, and no-one would force him to leave, especially a murdering thug being controlled by a pompous, power-crazed madman.

He would stay and face this threat, no matter what.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello again; I'm back! Hope you've all been enjoying the summer; I can't believe that it is nearly over! Sorry that it's been a while (I was on holiday). Sinister times are ahead for Erik (DUN DUN DUN!) but as icanhearthedrums so rightly said; he is the Phantom! **

**Thank you so very much to all readers/reviewers/those who fave-d/those who followed. I must especially thank; TMara, icanhearthedrums, Anna, KitKat and Tangosalsa. Your continual reviewing is very much appreciated; I always love to read your comments on the chapters! And now, onto chapter twenty seven... **

**Twenty Seven- Past The Point Of No Return  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

The harsh grip of winter and a cold March soon faded into the joy of spring, sunlight once again reaching the dingy backstreets of London and making the River Thames sparkle. The delight amongst Londoners at this craved transformation from snow to sunshine was infectious; the Black Rose Opera House seemed to fall back into their previous state of enthusiasm and joy. The coming of spring had not lessened the popularity of the opera and Erik had been both happy and worried at this situation, for he felt thrilled that his opera was a success but could not bear to contemplate the fact that is employees would continue to behave like monsters through the spring season. However, as they had done on previous occasions, they had proved their employer's fears to be needless.

But Erik's fears were not only regarding the mood of his somewhat temperamental employees; each day that rolled slowly by was both a blessing and a curse. It was a fact discussed in hushed whispers between Erik and Nadir as they passed one another in the corridors from stage to office, or conveyed through meaningful looks from across backstage and then finally analysed and picked apart by them both every night in their shared office. Neither of them ever commented on how they both kept glancing behind them to ensure that no shadowy figure stood lurking, or how they would involuntarily jump at the slamming of a door, or whispered conversations late at night in the corridors.

The blessing was that, since the blindingly obvious attempt against Nadir's life, no other murderous attempts had been directed at Erik, Nadir or the Black Rose employees. But whilst, as Nadir drily put it, it was nice to still be alive, the lack of action taken by this 'assassin' was also a curse. For now every day was a paranoid journey into the unknown; no joy or relief could be felt for the fear that in the one moment their concentration lapsed, the ominous threat would be carried out. Erik wished, in his frustration at walking around and constantly glancing over his shoulder, that the assassin would just show himself so that he could wring the man's neck and be rid of this tortuous waiting game that he found himself immersed in. Who knew when it would end- or how it would end? The thought of coming into the office and perhaps finding Nadir sprawled dead on the floor was enough to turn Erik insane. He especially had always been the cat, stalking his prey and pouncing with effortless precision...but now he was the mouse, running scared and scurrying around his own creation. The feeling was not pleasant at all.

What made the hopeless situation worse was that Nadir was starting to become ill. He had been tired and shaken after the attack itself, with his arm broken and various other limbs sprained, but he had continued to hurry around and play at being a detective, despite Erik's continual protests that he stop wearing himself out. But even when he became too tired to leave the office, Nadir still sat up till the early hours, completing paperwork and scouring newspapers for anything he considered 'a lead' whilst also stressing as to the impending doom of their assassin predicament. The old fool had already been back to the hospital twice since the attack and had been confined to bed rest again and again, but despite Erik's attempts at enforcing this, Nadir still continued with his own wishes.

"You should go to Switzerland and stay with the Giry's- you need a rest, Khan." Erik growled each and every time he saw his friend ignoring the medical advice given, hating the gaunt look that Nadir now possessed, or how he seemed to worn down and restricted these tortuous days. "It would do you a world of good, Nadir."

"So you think that I should leave you to face endless paperwork and the unknown assassin intent on our murder alone?!" he had demanded in response, equally adamant that he was right. "God's teeth, Erik, you're many things but stupid isn't one of them. So stop acting it!"

Though it was futile, Erik did not give up in begging Nadir to take a rest from the stressful work at the opera house. Amongst his other everyday tasks of teaching the idiots in his orchestra to tune their instruments, or keeping Violet from sneaking into the singing rehearsals to pick a fight with Connie- who was just as eager- Erik also began to compose again, at a frightening rate. The songs, arias, melodies and even entire orchestral numbers seemed to pour out of him and onto the paper as easily as breathing. Soon Erik had enough pieces to surrender an entire night to collections of unrelated pieces, with dances and instrumental pieces in-between, and so the week's performances were soon split between his full opera and these collections, which proved very popular with the audiences.

When composing or accompanying his performers onstage, hidden by a screen, Erik found that the constant aching throb of tiredness and stress would begin to fade away, if only for the duration of the song. The burning memory of _that night_ did not ever fully fade away, but the piano made it more tolerable. Erik accepted some of the roaring applause as his own, feeling his heart soar as he heard the screams and cheers for more erupt from the full auditorium night after night. But the music remained a temporary distraction; nothing could fully remove the worry that he and Nadir both held in regards to the waiting game. Because, though they both joked and laughed it off, they both knew that such a wait could not, and would not, last forever. They both knew how the 'assassin' would want it to end; perhaps it was an inevitable consequence that would occur, something that even meticulous planning and Erik's fearsome wrath could not stop. But they did not linger on that melancholy thought- they simply made light jokes about how Erik might find the assassin to be an adoring fan, or that Nadir would discover that it was a woman he had offended in Persia.

Erik came to realise that perhaps the waiting game had several rounds before the final result in the first, gorgeously hot week of June. The sun was dominating the clear blue sky and the smiles were erupting on everyone's faces. The stifling heat did not deter the adoring audiences of the Black Rose, and the auditorium was packed full each and every night, generating sweltering heat that made the makeup run from the performers faces. In an attempt to create a new sensation and to stir up excitement amongst the audiences that flocked to the opera every night, Erik began to labour over a new piece of music. It did not come as easily as the other pieces, and he spent many long nights working to perfect each bar. Even when he played it through, his finely tuned ears pricked for the faults that did not exist, he still felt a little unsure. It was an ambitious piece, something he had not ever been able to experiment with before.

The melody itself, and the accompanying chords and notes for the orchestra, were fine. It was the usual hauntingly brilliant blend that managed to catch the warmth and cheery aura of the hot weather whilst also retaining some air of mystery. When Erik rehearsed the tune with them, he felt deliriously happy to hear the cello in tune and every instrument note perfect after a few run-throughs, an amazing sound even to Erik's critical ears. The rehearsal made him more confident about the piece, but the daunting aspect of such a song was in the singing, a blend of harmony not in duet...but in trio.

Erik had never been able to put such a thing to practise before, as in those distant days of composing and singing with Christine, it had only been the two of them; no third person to create the trio of harmony. In theory, and from playing the intertwined melodies in his mind and on the piano, the harmony would work, but it relied on the three individuals being note perfect. One slip, and the piece would plummet into total ruin and sound more like the screech of a dying cat that anything even remotely musical.

And so, when Erik handed out the score sheets to Marianne, Daniel and Connie in the practise rooms, he did not wait to explain anything; he ignored their confused expressions and went to sit at the piano, staring at the majestic spread of black and white and waiting for the questions to begin, as he knew they would.

"Sir?" It was Daniel, then, who had decided to fire his questions at Erik first. With a smile, he looked up from the keys and at his male vocalist, who sounded perplexed and was shifting nervously on the spot, his red face a sure sign that he felt embarrassed to be confused by the score sheet handed to him. "I'm sorry to say that I don't understand this music."

"What about it confuses you? The notes?" Erik asked in the gentle voice that he rarely used. "Or perhaps the irregular timing in certain places?"

"N-no." Daniel stammered, clearly a little lost as to what 'irregular timing' was as well. "It's the arrangement that is confusing me. I think you might have made a mistake. There is quiet clearly a solo and then a duet- but then there is a third line of music. As if it were for a trio."

"You have just described it perfectly, Daniel. A trio. I don't understand your confusion."

"But..._how_?"

Erik felt irritation stab at his good mood. Daniel was a talented singer, there was no doubt about it, and now he could read music fairly well, with some understanding as to the different timings and key signatures too. But now he was failing to embrace the creative, ambitious flair of such a piece? Erik was often confused by the music he wrote; confused by the conflicting emotion, confused as to where inside him the piece had come from. But as long as it sounded breathtaking and he knew that it was good, why did the music have to be analysed and understood? That was part of the joy; the exploration! Could such a talented young man as Daniel truly fail to see this?

"How? To sing, Daniel, open your mouth." Erik replied drily, the sarcasm dawning on the boy as he turned a painful shade of red. "You have done it countless times before, to audiences of hundreds of people I might add."

Daniel mumbled something incoherently, clearly too embarrassed to say anything to defend his unintelligent questions, so Marianne kindly took over and used the opportunity to hide her own embarrassment at not fully understanding how such a piece of music would work.

"I think that Daniel was asking how such a complex arrangement could possibly fit together without sounding a little strained, Sir." She put it in clearer terms, earning a mumbled thank you from Daniel.

"Yes. If one of us were to lose the melody, even a little, the others would sound awful even if their notes were correct." Connie agreed, frowning as she took in the score sheet with wary eyes. "What! How am I supposed to sing that note there?! It's stupidly high! Give that part to Marianne!"

Erik gritted his teeth and refrained from yelling at all three of them, as he truly wanted to, and instead sat waiting for the murmuring and nervous stupidity to die down. He looked despairingly at them, unsure if they were being modest or honestly thought that they were not capable of such a piece of music. Either way, it was aggravating to say the least.

"You are all capable of this; all of you are very talented." He said simply, fixing each of them with a hard look and fighting to show none of his own anxiety on the unmasked side of his face. He must have succeeded, as their faces cleared a little and Daniel's painful blush began to fade until his cheeks were just slightly pink. "Stop doubting the abilities that we all know you possess and take the time to learn this piece. I never said that you must perform it straight away, did I? You will be surprised by how quickly you will learn, or how easy it will be."

"So, in other words; stop whingeing at get on with it?" Connie asked, trying to sound annoyed but failing as her trademark smile crept onto her face.

"Brava! Connie, that is precisely what I am saying!" he replied with mock approval, his own smile twitching on his face.

And so they had worked at the song; rehearsals lasting for hours at a time as they worked to perfect each note, each line and eventually whole pages of the complicated yet glorious sounding song. There were times, when one would not understand to notes or all three would make a mistake and Erik would panic and nearly decided to stop the song, telling them it was useless, but they seemed as determined as he to perfect it and perform it. And when the song did at last come together, with all three singing correctly, Erik embellished his piano part and soon they began to rehearse with the orchestra too. Considering it was his first trio harmony, and that it was going splendidly, Erik felt as if he had achieved something far greater than teaching three young people a song. Tasting the dizzying heights of joy and success again cleared the fog of stress and pain and allowed him to enjoy the music once more.

But in one of the last rehearsals before the performance, when it was just he and the singers in a practise room, everything took a turn for the worse, disastrously so. Erik had just started to play the second verse, beaming at the singers as they reached perfection, when suddenly a ballerina came screaming into the practise room, crying hysterically and sounding as if she had just witnessed murder. The girl's eyes were filled with tears but were also utterly petrified. Her face was drained of all colour, so that she resembled a corpse, and her hands were trembling.

All three singers turned in shock to stare at her, Connie making towards her and putting an arm around her shoulders, but Erik slammed down a chord angrily and stood up, snarling a little. The song had been going perfectly; it was their last rehearsal- of course it had to be today that a ballerina decided to have a hysterical fit!

"For goodness sakes, Sarah! Are you a complete ninny?!" he bellowed, enraged by the abrupt interruption of that splendid rendition. He was so enraged that he did not realise how upset the girl was, and had no time to be sympathetic, despite Connie's glaring at him as he yelled at the crying girl. "Can you not sort things out yourself for once?! I don't care if Violet is behaving like a complete monster; hit her back! Defend yourself, you stupid girl! Don't come crying to me and expect me to sort her out for you!"

The girl stumbled to a chair, where Connie helped her sit down, before shaking her head numbly at her employer. The sobs had stopped; shocked into silence by the anger of Erik, and now she simply trembled and had tears streaking down her face soundlessly.

"It- it wasn't Violet, S-Sir." She whispered, her voice cracking as she nearly began to cry again.

"Then what in heaven is the matter with you?" he demanded in a less than feeling voice, though he was starting to regret his shouting. Sarah had never given him any trouble before; she was a quiet girl who did as she was told. Nevertheless, she had ruined his rehearsal and was behaving like a toddler. "If you can put up with Violet, I'm sure that you can cope with anything."

She did not answer, she only swayed on her seat as if she might faint and fall to the floor. Marianne came to kneel the other side of the chair, to catch her should she faint, and Erik felt his eyes roll at the drama of the moment. The stupid girl was probably fussing over nothing.

"It was...it was a ghost, Sir. A g-ghost haunting the stage." She managed to eventually choke out, as Connie gave her a quick hug and whispered some kind words to her. Erik began to laugh, leaning on the piano as he tried to make himself believe what he had just heard. A ghost? The building was brand new! No-one had died to become a ghost!

"This is not the cursed Opera Populaire of Paris, you know." He replied in an amused voice, not taking her words or fear at all seriously. It was hilarious and a little ironic, in truth. "There is no masked ghoul, haunting our stage and demanding my money. Calm down."

"But I-I saw him! I saw him with my own eyes!" Sarah burst out, sounding angry now as well as scared, trembling again as she stood up to face her employer. Marianne stood with her, imploring Erik with her eyes to stop laughing at the poo, terrified girl. "I saw him up in the rafters, the walkways above the stage! He was all in black, save a white mask on his face- he was there one moment, and the next he had vanished!"

The words hit Erik like a tonne of bricks, cutting his laughter short and wiping the amused smirk off of his face. White masked man in the rafters?! He turned from the piano and quickly strode over to Sarah, who looked even more scared now that Erik was silent. He gripped her shoulders and fixed her with his angriest stare, daring her to make up silly little stories-!

"If this is a lie-" he warned in a sinister voice, but colour flooded the ballerina's cheeks like a flame.

"Why would I lie? What would I gain from lying to you about that- that _ghost_?!" she yelled, hysteria building again and she writhed under Erik's firm grip. "I nearly fainted- I'm petrified! You cannot say that you don't see how scared I am?! In Paris that girl got kidnapped- a whole host of horrible things occurred!"

Erik instantly let go off the girl, who stumbled back into her seat and began to sob again. It was true; she was terrified, and Erik felt his stomach lurch at the thought of what this could really mean. As he stared at the girls bone white face and remembered how she had run in screaming, he recalled how the ballerina's at the Opera Populaire had always run screaming through the dark corridors backstage, not daring to linger where the fearsome Opera Ghost might be hiding in the shadows with his magical lasso. Her reaction left no room to doubt it; her story was true.

The sudden fear and confusion, the questions that began to spiral in his brain, it was as if a frost had seized Erik's heart and stopped it from beating. So this was it; round one of the waiting game. He felt sick; there was no doubting it. Someone knew who he was; someone was doing this to scare him, they knew that it would affect him. But who knew of his dark past?! The thought that perhaps this attacker, or whoever had hired him, might be behind the impersonation made Erik feel as if he really might be sick, and it was only Sarah's rant that made him stay in the room.

"It will all happen here!" she was wailing, drawing Erik's attention back onto her. "We'll suffer disaster, we'll be kidnapped, we might die-!"

"ENOUGH!" Erik cut her off with more venom than he had originally intended, but the girl's fussing and sobbing had made him feel as if he were on the border of insanity. He frowned at her and lowered his voice to a less angry and frightening level. "Don't be so silly; it will just be some idiot thinking that he is funny to bring the legend of the Opera Populaire to London. I will find the joker responsible and see that he is sent away. Meanwhile, Sarah, you must not go gossiping and spreading rumours, as it will only make the problem larger. Do you understand what I am saying? You must tell no-one about this; no-one at all."

The girl looked up from the floor and nodded silently, still not convinced that she had seen a foolish stagehand playing at being an opera legend.

"And you three, too." Erik added firmly, looking at each singer in turn and ensuring that they had all nodded their agreement to keep quiet about this strange occurrence. "The last thing we need right now is a collection of dancers that are scared to death, or for the public to think that the Black Rose has been taken over by some sort of ghoul. We are still in our first proper year of performing for paying audiences and such a thing could be disastrous!"

Connie offered to take the dancer away to calm her down fully, and Erik waved them away with a relieved sigh. It was always the dancers who seemed to generate the fuss; perhaps he needed to start looking for someone to control them- someone that did not rely upon violence, as Violet did. Marianne took the now vacant seat and pulled an anxious face, whilst Daniel just leaned on the piano and looked a little dazed. Erik wanted to run his fingers through his hair and massage his temples, but the thought of accidently knocking the mask off deterred him from doing so. Instead, he began to pace.

"D'you think that all this could be a cruel trick on you, Sir?" Daniel asked, making Erik look up with eyes that looked almost sad. Daniel's words only further confirmed the sinking feeling inside Erik that the thug trying to kill him might know all about the Phantom... "You know, because you wear a mask, you're French and are a virtuoso, like the Opera Ghost in France?"

"Daniel! Be quiet!" Marianne scolded agitatedly, smacking him about the head with her hand, yet turning to face her employer with curious, desperate eyes just as Daniel did; only he was rubbing his head with a slightly dopey expression on his face. Did the boy play this dopey, cheeky role to impress Marianne, whom he was clearly infatuated with? Erik sighed and stopped his pacing, facing them both.

"I am not really sure, Daniel." Erik replied in a dull voice, hating this feeling of being so clueless, especially when it mattered so much this time to be on top of what was happening. "But if that is the case, and this is some fool thinking that he is funny, he will not go unpunished. I will reprimand whoever is responsible for this jest and our shows will go on as planned. "

With this parting statement, he turned and stormed out of the practise room without saying goodbye to either of them, leaving them wondering why their employer seemed so bothered by this. He had dealt with fights, loud audiences, disasters onstage and the constant threats of the mean streets; thugs, attacks, stealing, murder...he had faced those problems without a worry, often managing to solve them and keep his employees safe and happy. As they wondered about their employer, Erik stormed through the corridors and up the staircase, storming into the office and banging the door loudly in his temper. Nadir, who had been dozing in the armchair, woke with a start.

Whilst he hated that he had stopped his friend from resting, he was too frantic to feel truly guilty.

"Erik?" Nadir asked a little groggily, yawning a little as he stretched and wiped sleep from his eyes. Having just been woken up, he looked weak and old, and Erik made a motion for him to stay seated, pouring him a small drink and passing it to Nadir wordlessly. "You look as if someone has annoyed you today."

"Someone knows, Khan." He said darkly.

"Someone knows what, exactly? The length of the Nile? The first King of England? The-"

"Stop it!"

Erik, despite all his caring actions towards his friend at the sight of his ill-health, was furious with Nadir for being so sarcastic. Could the old fool not see the actual fear in his eyes, or how he was agitated and nervous whilst Nadir lay back, comfortable and drowsy? Erik gripped the arms of the chair he sat on in the effort not to get up and start pacing again, well aware that it was a habit that needed to be stopped. It gave away his emotions too easily.

"Well, go on then Erik. Elaborate." Nadir said, a little sulkily, as Erik had clearly not appreciated his wit. "But, please, for mine and this furniture's sake, don't lose your temper."

Ignoring the reference to his temper tantrums in Paris, and how he had nearly wreaked every item in Nadir's house, Erik sat back in the armchair, legs sprawled, feeling utterly exhausted. Nadir could be told anything, and the sudden realisation of how much there was to tell made him want to give up and sleep. But, knowing that the Persian would be annoyed if not included in the drama, he somehow found the energy to go on.

"It was today, in rehearsal. A dancer suddenly burst in on the song and she was screaming and crying in a hysterical fit of fright. She said, after much shouting and fuss, that she had seen a ghost in the walkways above the stage. A ghost in a white mask." He said lamely, watching Nadir's face turn rapidly white and lose the good natured humour. "This is directed at me, of course. It is too coincidental that now we have been threatened to be killed and suddenly someone appears, dressed as the Phantom of the Opera."

"Heavens." Nadir managed to say once recovered from the initial shock, clearly stunned by the tale and also a little scared. "So you mean to say that...that you think that the Comte knows who you are, then?"

"I didn't think that we had decided that this whole assassin matter was definitely the work of the Comte." Erik said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, stop it Erik. Who else?" Nadir said wearily, suddenly looking alert again. "But how does he know that you are the Opera Ghost? Christine wouldn't have told anyone, would she? No...it would more likely be that Raoul, but then how would he-?"

Erik sighed again. He had hoped that Nadir and his irritating optimism would have brought some light to this problem; perhaps telling him that it wouldn't be anything more than a silly joker, playing at being daring and would probably end up turning himself in once hearing of the consequences. But Erik knew, with a sinking feeling in his chest, that Nadir was no fool.

"My biggest fear is what this impersonator, who we assume is the assassin or another Comte thug, will do." Erik muttered, sounding gloomy. He began to pick at some lose threads in the arm of the chair, his thoughts distant. "I doubt that he is here just to dress up and scare a few dancers. He will mean to do something, I am sure. But what?"

"Oh, you needn't worry about that, Erik. Surely we can work it out." Nadir looked thoughtful, less frantic as he reassured his friend in a calm voice. "This imposter is playing a game that you have created, surely you have realised that? You know all the moves he will play. This is you against him, in this game of ghosts and ghouls, and as you created the myth and you were the Opera Ghost you will undoubtedly beat him at whatever he attempts to do!"

"And then what? What do we do once he has tried to bring down a chandelier, or lure one of the dancers to the cellars?" Erik demanded in a cold, flat voice.

"Then, we catch him and we dispose of him for good."

Erik got up from the chair and crossed the room to stand at the window, not quite sure if this was a blessing or a curse. Surely it was a god thing that they now had some hope of predicting where this was headed, but it was worrying that people, dangerous people, knew that he had been the Opera Ghost. How they had come about such knowledge was irrelevant when considering what they might do with it. Erik shuddered lightly. He felt insecure in his own opera house, unhappy and paranoid in his own creation. It was an unpleasant sensation, to say the least, and Erik did not know how it was going to end. His own time as the Opera Ghost had ended with him composing an opera...he doubted that a thug would write an opera and demand it to be shown. The idea was almost laughable.

"I suppose I will have to try and think of what a brainless fool impersonating me would do to try and bring about our downfall, then." He replied in a bitter voice, and Nadir simply nodded. There wasn't anything else to say.

The day went past swiftly from then on, and soon it was night and time for the trio to sing the complicated yet beautiful song that they had been rehearsing earlier. Erik could feel their nerves, and he too felt jumpy and a little anxious as to how it would turn out. He sat at his piano behind the screen, hearing the orchestra start the song with the opening chords, and then the singers began to weave that masterful harmony. The audience let out a sigh, like the wind rustling the leaves on an elegant willow, and Erik played his piano part with very little concentration, focused upon the notes they sang out to the enthralled audience. It was perfect- they were perfect! It was all Erik could do not to leap up and run out to hug them all as they met their final note flawlessly, the auditorium erupting into roaring applause.

Erik stood up, grinning, ready to head to the wings and congratulate his stars. That was when a peculiar sound came from above him, up in the rafters. Erik looked up sharply, his eyes peering through the darkness, seeing nothing-

But then the audience began to scream. The scream was loud, ugly and guttural; Erik heard this and ran for the wings as fast as he could, crashing into Marianne, who had come running off stage. Her face was white and she was in tears, mumbling about something that Erik could not decipher. He watched as she crumpled to the floor, seeing Connie and Daniel running up to where he stood beside her- and then Erik saw what had caused the screaming, and Marianne's fainting.

There, swinging by a rope right in the centre of the stage was a stagehand. He was clearly dead, his face red from the strangling hold of the lasso noose tight around his neck. Erik watched in frozen horror as he continued to dangle for a few moments, before the rope was dropped and he fell to the floor.

Amid the screaming chaos, Erik felt anger bubble beneath his skin. Seeing that someone had run out to tend to the poor man, he made for the rafters, climbing at lightning speed and storming over to where the body must have been dropped from. He stood there, panting from the sudden exertion of climbing and the anger he felt, looking around him in enraged disbelief. There was no-one there, no-one at all.

"I hope you know that you are playing a slippery game, Monsieur!" Erik hissed in his native French tongue, glancing around him again before returning to the ground.

He knew now that doing nothing, or waiting for the assassin to come to him, was not going to be an option. If this madman was intent on harming his employees as well as him for no reason other than to mimic his past ways, then it would be war between them. No-one controlled him, the Phantom; they would die trying, as far as he was concerned. He would find a way to lure out this challenger and he would get rid of him once and for all.

"You have crossed a line, Monsieur!" he suddenly bellowed up into the rafters, attracting sympathetic glances from the staff of backstage. "You have made your choice- you have passed the point of no return!"

He turned and stormed away, wondering a little fearfully what might happen if he failed. The Phantom does not fail; he told himself menacingly, I will not fail. And with that, he strode into the office and slammed the door shut, feeling scarily like the Phantom once more.


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello again! Another update and more Phantom vs. Fake Phantom... or as Haquikah perfectly put it, the Phantom Wars! I know that some of you might be wondering about the beloved fop and what he's up to, but rest assured that we will return to that delightful slime ball eventually... :-)**

**A massive thank-you to the lovely reviewers- Haquikah, icanhearthedrums, TMara, RosieLilyIce93, KitKat, Tangosalsa and Anna. Also thank you to sherlockedsuperwhovian who fav-ed and followed. Reviews, follows, fave's...they are all much appreciated *big grin*. Now, back to Erik and the masked mimic...**

**Twenty Eight- Whose Is The Face In The Mask?  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

Gossip was spreading like wildfire over London, the buzz of a scandal singing its way through the streets. The story, re-told in the markets or laughingly mocked in the stuffy taverns, was that the French millionaire who had been foolish enough to build an opera house in the heart of the poorest part of London was at last discovering what consequences he would suffer. Those who detested the opera house- and the rich foreigner running it- laughed at the tale of how a stagehand was dangled before the horrified audiences, mid performance, whilst those who liked the Black Rose simply kept quiet. The newspapers added to the chaos, screaming headlines and scare tactics asking if the illusive Frenchman had somehow lured the Phantom of the Opera to London.

"What are they saying?! HOW CAN THEY PUBLISH SUCH A BLATANT LIE?!" Erik bellowed with the volume to shake the window panes, tossing the libellous rubbish into the fire as he paced before it, his eyes dancing with fury in the flickering light. "Phantom of the Opera- is that all they care about?! I promised I would be a good employer, Nadir, I promised! And now that poor wretch is dead. Why must the past taint everything I do?!"

"You are a good employer, and this is not your fault, Erik." Nadir replied sharply, throwing his own newspaper down with a look of disgust, finding yet more sensationalised drama about ghosts and ghouls instead of what should have been a serious murder report. "But this..._interest_, shall we say, may well be in our favour."

"How can you say such a foolish thing?!" Erik bellowed, kicking over the small table and sending all on top of it flying across the room with incredible force. He looked wretched, tired and stressed from sleepless nights. The lines of age and exhaustion were slowly being etched onto his face, making him look old and weak- things that Erik had never truly been. "This is what the imposter wants! He wants to ruin me, ruin us, make our lives living hell before killing us. If only I could hunt that murderous dog down, I could end this all! Curse this!"

Nadir watched as Erik snarled and began to pace again. His friend was starting to spiral into insanity again; Nadir knew it with a certainty that worried him. He knew that Erik would never completely admit to why he was so agitated, for Nadir knew that after all the anger at being tricked and the worry of his employees getting hurt as one already had, Erik was scared. Scared for his own life, scared for Nadir...and Nadir knew, with a feeling of hope that should have been dread, Erik was scared for Christine too. The stubborn fool might deny any compassion for the woman and declare love to be a lie, but Nadir knew him too well to be fooled. For if Christine was being targeted again by the hideous, conniving Comte, it would imply that Christine had been forcibly taken from Erik that night; if that was true, then it would suggest that- Nadir smiled despite the stress. Erik was scared to hope that Christine might care for him in ways that he had dreamt of ever since he had fallen disastrously in love with her.

"What are you smiling about?" Erik demanded in a low voice, his eyes glowing dangerously as Nadir tried to wipe the smug smirk from his face. "You know, Khan, I think that you have turned mad. First, you declare that this sensationalised deception might just be beneficial for the Black Rose and now you sit here smirking as if the thought of a painful death is pleasing, if not hilarious!"

"Why don't you listen to what I have to say before jumping to conclusions?" Nadir suggested in an easy manner, not caring enough to become angry. "What I meant by that was that this is exactly what the mimic, assassin, whatever you call him, wants. He wants us to be thrown into chaos and suffer, and because we are, he believes he is winning."

"I see no positives to this, Khan." Erik muttered, but Nadir simply raised a hand to stop whatever mad rant he was about to begin without a second thought.

"Look past the surface, Erik. Look deeper into this, remembering that you are the quintessential Opera Ghost, the Master of Shadows who knows every trick and every illusion." Nadir said in a low voice, almost willing Erik to suddenly realise the method behind his apparent madness. But Erik merely looked at him with a bored expression, so Nadir gritted his teeth and continued. "Our little mimic is very pleased with himself at the moment, Erik. He thinks that he holds the upper hand; that he will soon succeed. But with your superior knowledge and expertise, we can lull him into a false sense of security and bring him crashing to the ground!"

Erik waited for more, but the Persian did not say anything else. He sat back in his chair, smug expression plastered over his weary face, and waited for the shower of praise that Erik was not going to give him.

"You forget one crucial part to this master plan of yours, Daroga." Erik said scornfully, rubbing his hands together absentmindedly and ignoring the sudden look of outrage on Nadir's face. "We have no way to bring him crashing down. Currently, his sense of security is not false, it is horrifically real. Don't you think that if I had a way to bring an end to his ghastly antics, I would have by now?! I worry for your sanity sometimes, Nadir, I truly do."

The day was long, hard and exhausting, leaving no room for relaxation and Erik barely managed to struggle his way through the arduous tasks presented to him. His opera house was in a state of complete disarray, in no state to rehearse let alone perform to paying audiences, and so with performances cancelled for the foreseeable future, Erik set about piecing his creation back together, painstakingly slowly. The police had demanded to talk to him and several employees, more out of following regulations as opposed to trying to find whoever was responsible for the murder, and when Erik invited them into his office to talk with them, he took an instant disliking to both men.

Erik, understandably, had never liked the law or those who enforced it. To his, perhaps biased eyes, the law always seemed to cover those who it favoured and always managed to wreak horror upon those who truly needed protection. No policeman had ever saved him from his life in the gypsy clan, no law enforcer had ever managed to apprehend the Comte for all his murderous activity and yet he had been constantly hounded in the Opera Populaire. The snivelling managers had always threatened him with the law, never succeeding of course, and even the fop had paid those soldiers to hunt him down. What gave the rich the right to pay their way into deciding what justice was? Erik forced himself to offer the men a seat, fighting the urge to play a simple trick on them and embarrass them. Perhaps they would help him in this messy business of murder, though he rather doubted it. Their odd looks gave him no encouragement to trust them at all.

"Sir, we must really cut straight to the point. Murder is a serious business, and it doesn't help that the newspapers are stirring up trouble." The man with a bushy moustache said, the other weasel faced man shooting Erik a dirty look as if to accuse _him_ of stirring up trouble.

"Ah, yes Monsieur's, but the lies of the newspapers have nothing to do with me." Erik replied smoothly, enjoying how they bristled at the term 'Monsieur'. Such self-assured men as these were the easiest to crumble, and usually were the most entertaining to annoy. Erik smiled.

"Um...yes. Of course." The moustache man cleared his throat, spreading his large, gloved hands on the table, fixing Erik with a hard look that instantly made him ball his own fists under the table. He had the distinct feeling of being harassed, as if it were he who was guilty. "The truth is, Sir, that you have not helped matters at all. Your opera house, as you so call it, is filled from top to bottom with thieves, cut throats, murderers, prostitutes...need I go on? This place is as good as a criminal den, filled with the lowlife scum who plague our city. I am in no doubt that the murderer we seek will be hidden within these very walls."

Erik felt his blood boil, slamming his fist down and causing both policemen to look first startled, and then angry. He wished that Nadir were here to keep a lid on his anger, for at this rate he was likely to murder both of them for spouting such pompous, pretentious drivel.

"You dare come in here and accuse my own employees of being lowlife scum, capable of murdering their fellow employee and friend?!" Erik hissed, well aware that the weasel faced man was beginning to grip his baton, ready to lash out if needs be. "Have you seen any performances here, Monsieur? Because I can assure you that my employees are far more respectable than the majority of this filthy city! Low life scum? How is a man or woman, poor and suffering yet still hard working enough to find employment and better themselves, in any way inferior to yourself? I believe that they are superior to the likes of you!"

"Sir, you are talking to a policeman, not one of your filthy employees!" the weasel faced man interjected in a gleeful voice, looking delighted with the way the conversation was turning. "Or are you guilty of harbouring the villain? Plenty have already asked why a millionaire would build an opera house in the poorest part of London, employing the dregs of society. Care to explain yourself, _Monsieur?_"

Erik stood up sharply, slamming both hands down this time with an almighty crash, glaring down at the two imbeciles staring at him with smug satisfaction. He had to force himself to keep both hands on the table, knowing that he was exerting great self control by not wringing their fat necks.

"GET OUT OF MY OPERA HOUSE!" he bellowed at them, storming over to the door and wrenching it open, breathing heavily and leaving marks in the wood where his nails dug in. "AND DON'T SHOW YOUR FACES HERE AGAIN!"

Watching the two men strut down the corridor, already laughing about him and evidently pleased that they wouldn't have to bother with the case, Erik felt incredibly sad. It was horrific that so many people held such venomous opinions about people such as his employees, declaring them disgusting an inferior, and Erik did not know how to change the way people thought. He had been almost every unsavoury persona that existed at some point in his dark life; murderer, thief, gypsy, kidnapper, madman, crazed obsessive...he still was an ugly monster. He knew how they felt, he knew what they had suffered in their unstable lives and he had hoped to bring some stability, some hope. Erik remembered how Marianne had collapsed in her tears at the sight of the hanged boy, how the other stagehands had organised a memorial for him, how each and every one of them had cried real tears...

His employees were tough. They braved the onslaught of tears knowing that eventually they would feel happy again- Erik wished he had done the same. Nadir barrelled into the office, greeting him in a sulky voice- still annoyed that Erik had not appreciated his plan earlier- but Erik, after glumly remembering how he had survived depression under the opera, was suddenly struck with an idea, an idea that left him deaf and dumb in that moment. How to bring down the mimic, how to find him and kill him- of course! Why hadn't he considered it before?!

He began to tear around the small office, ripping open drawers and sifting through various piles of aged sheet music, oblivious to Nadir's raised eyebrows or confused facial expression. It was so obvious, such a good idea- the perfect trap! At last his frantic hands came across it, a little crumpled and torn in places, but he could easily write it out again. He would need to edit a few things, make some copies, start rehearsals as soon as possible-

At last, Nadir's whining and whingeing broke through Erik's happy delirium.

"ERIK! Gods teeth man, answer me! What on Earth are you doing?! Are you possessed?! How did the meeting with those two policemen-"

"Khan, be quiet." Erik snapped, waving his hands in irritation and hurriedly rushing across the room to sit opposite Nadir, clutching the collection of score sheets in his right hand. Nadir coloured and lapsed into silence, not looking pleased but sure that he would finally have some of his questions answered, instead of talking to Erik and being completely ignored. "The policemen were ignorant louts, not at all a credit to London, but I don't want to waste any more time babbling on about nonsense. I have been struck with a brilliant idea- an idea as to how we will bring down our murderous mimic!"

"Go on."

With a childish grin- Nadir was surprised to see Erik looking so excited and immediately felt nervous- Erik threw down a fat pile of music onto Nadir's lap. Nadir picked it up, looking carefully at the titles of the pieces as he tried to decipher what this music even meant, and then the realisation hit him and he dropped it back onto his lap, face set in stone.

"No." He said through gritted teeth, making Erik snatch the music back. "How stupid could you be, Erik? Especially with all the Opera Ghost drama in the papers- what are you thinking?! I thought that all the copies of this damned piece were burned!"

Erik looked down at the music, his music, _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was painful to look at it in some ways, remembering the night of the performance and what had occurred afterwards, but the past did not matter when faced with such horror in the present. Surely Nadir could see the golden opportunity that was staring them right in the face? If they performed _Don Juan Triumphant_ at the Black Rose, surely the assassin would attempt to ruin the show with the chandelier stunt. Erik knew that he could wait in the place where the assassin would need to unhinge the chandelier, and there he could kill the murderous beast and end the terror! He tried, in vain, to explain his plan to Nadir, but the Persian simply folded his arms across his chest and looked stubbornly away with all the maturity of a toddler like Henri.

"Erik, that damned opera was the cause of chaos and horror once, and I am not about to agree to another performance!" Nadir hissed, pouring himself a drink and downing the alcohol in one shaky gulp. "Besides, I am not happy for you to go dancing off to challenge this idiot. You might be killed!"

"I am the Phantom of the Opera, Khan!" he replied icily, standing up and heading for the door, not intending to change his mind even if the old fool did not agree with his ideas. He had never declared himself to be the Phantom like that, as if the sinister accolade were a good thing. His heart flipped a little, making him feel unsteady. "I will not fail."

Nadir watched in alarm as Erik, dreaded opera still gripped tightly in one hand, reached the door and opened it, turning around to glare back at him before slamming the door and charging off in the direction of the stage. Sensing something awful, Nadir leapt up and hurried off after him, calling his name like a child as he fought to catch up with his obstinate friend.

Erik strode on angrily, ignoring Nadir's pitiful pleas that he slow down, running down the spiral staircase and through the backstage area, yelling at the top of his voice for all employees to come onto the stage, performers and stage hands alike. His voice, loud and distinctive, tore through the quiet chatter and general melancholy air that had been shrouding and choking the once happy atmosphere of the Black Rose. Erik was fed up with depression and gloom; was a little happiness too much to ask?! The sight of their clearly enraged employer brought the Black Rose employees running like rats entranced by the Pied Piper, and soon they were clustered around Erik and waiting on his words, staring up and where he had climbed onto the piano stool, staring down at the sea of hopeful faces.

Erik felt the opera score still in his right hand, and upon seeing Nadir stumble onto the stage, panting, he knew that he could begin. Surveying the upturned faces of every employee, he cleared his throat.

"You will be aware of the crisis that faces both us and this opera house." He said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all but not at all angry or infuriated. Marianne felt Connie nudge her, turning to see the fiery haired girl mouth a question at her, but she turned away to listen to their employer speak. "Earlier today, I spoke to some policemen who seemed adamant that someone in this very opera house was responsible for the murder that occurred during that dratted performance. I trust you all enough to be sure that the person responsible is not within my staff. We have been the subject of a great many discussions, newspaper stories and gossip, but I am not content to let this dreadful event end what I would say is a collection of brilliant people striving to better themselves. We will do what we always do; act professionally, and continue with our performances."

A few people started clapping, and soon the whole crowd was clapping and cheering and yelling out various insults to the upper class snobs who had pointed the finger of blame already, without thought or care. Nadir felt a small smile creep onto his face as he watched Erik balance precariously on that stool, looking both ridiculous and brilliant at the same time. He was charismatic, that was certain, and Nadir felt a strange sense of paternal pride as he noticed the jewel of a tear in his friend's eyes. Erik would have never experienced such support...to him, it would feel incredible.

"If the newspapers see fit to declare our opera house as being dominated by France's Opera Ghost, then I think that we shall give them the Ghost's own opera." Erik said calmly. "Our next opera, ladies and gentlemen, is to be _Don Juan Triumphant_. I have one copy of the score here and I will soon be making copies so that the orchestra may learn their parts. Dancers, I will need to talk to you about what is appropriate for this opera, so for now you have no work to do...but I need to speak with Marianne and Daniel today."

Erik waited until Marianne had managed to shove her way through the crowd, with much help from Connie who was all too delighted to help, but Daniel did not appear. There was a low hum as the crowd murmured amongst themselves, Marianne peering around anxiously and at last Daniel appeared from the wings, not the crowd. Erik took one look at him and immediately he knew that he would not be teaching the Don Juan anything today.

"Are you ill, Daniel?" Erik asked in a tired voice, having dismissed the crowd of employees and jumped down from the stool, which he was sure needed mending. His male star looked like walking death; his face pale, his nose running, and when he tried to speak his voice sounded thick and rasping. "Don't answer; I can see that you are. Rest and DO NOT SING. If you do, you might well ruin your voice, and then your singing days at this opera house will sadly be over."

Having sent the grumbling Nadir off with Daniel, Erik began to stride off. Seeing that Marianne was still stood gaping at him, he turned around and motioned irritably for her to follow him. She ran to catch up, and they hurried along in silence. Erik could almost feel the girl's stare at the back of his head; she was a good singer, but she could be rather irritating at times. Irritatingly observant.

The practise room was almost unbearably stuffy, the piano sounding as if it needed tuning, and after a few minutes of taking Marianne through various warm-up scales Erik's head was already beginning to pound. He thought about cancelling the rehearsal, with the Don Juan otherwise engaged, but if they were to bring about the downfall of this foolish mimic soon then the opera needed to be complete as soon as humanly possible. Erik looked up, ignoring the throb of his headache and the odd look on Marianne's face, thrusting the music at the girl, suddenly incredibly angry with her for no apparent reason. The heat was making him edgy, and that annoying look in her eyes was starting to make him feel as if his skin were crawling.

"You will be the lead, obviously." Erik managed to say in a toneless voice, watching her take the music and look it over once with cold eyes. "You will play the maiden, Aminta. It is a soprano part; you will suit it just fine."

Marianne nodded slowly, still looking at the piece with cold eyes that struck something within Erik, something that made him want to hit the wall. Why did she look so incredibly annoyed? She should have been thrilled to once again sing the lead!

"Sir?"

Her voice sounded as cold as her eyes, cold and questioning, and Erik found himself worked into an incredible rage that was truly unexplainable. He slammed the lid down over the piano keys, standing up and walking in a slow circle, taking deep breaths so as to calm himself down. The speech to his employees had gone so well, they had lifted him up to a dizzying height of happiness, but now the odd behaviour of the soprano was throwing him down into anger and annoyance again. Perhaps Nadir had been right; just the thought of the night of Don Juan made him want to throw something.

"Marianne? I'm feeling too tired now, you can go."

"Sir." Her voice was now angry, so much so that Erik turned in alarm. She was staring down at the music gripped in her hand and as she looked up at him her face twisted with pure disgust. She threw the music down before stomping on it. "What you're doing is repulsive! What is the purpose of all this- I should turn you in to the police this very second!"

"Marianne!" Erik gasped in alarm, headache temper gone and replaced with horror and shock in a split second. "Whatever do you-"

But that was when Marianne crossed the room in a few strides, walking up to him shaking with anger before ripping the mask from his face. Erik reacted as he had done before, with Christine; he reached out and gripped Marianne by the wrist, the other hand shielding his ugly face as she began to cry, failing wildly.

"You- you are the Phantom! Daniel was right! You aren't just another masked man- you're terrorising the stage! It is you- how else would you have this music?!" she began to sob, hysterical. "And you killed that stage hand! You're haunting your own stage! You're using us to gain sick, twisted publicity for your evil opera! How could you?!"

Erik looked from the mask lying on the floor- which, flesh coloured, looked like a lump of meat lying there- and back to the hate and tear filled eyes of the stupid girl he now gripped tightly, anger pulsing through his body as he convinced himself not to fire her on the spot. Of course it would be Marianne, quiet yet observant Marianne, who worked it all out. Though why she thought that he was terrorising the stage or had killed the stage hand was beyond him-

"I'm right, aren't I?!" she declared wildly, thrashing around to get free. Erik merely looked at her with his chilling, yellow eyes and waited for her to shut up. "And now you're going to kidnap me?! Like that poor girl in Paris- how could you do this?! We trusted you- I trusted you!"

"Oh, for goodness sakes, be quiet Marianne and stop being such a brainless fool!" Erik bellowed, at last finding the words to speak again, at his wits end with her pathetic wailing as if she really were in danger. "You do not have half the talent of 'the poor girl in Paris', as you call her. You will want to stop this childish thrashing around- it is a waste of time."

"No! You will not silence me so that you can continue killing and haunting and using us for your own twisted gain!" she shrieked, her eyes fixated on the deformed side of Erik's face, trying to peer through his hand to see it. Seeing her preoccupied gaze, he took his hand away and let her recoil in disgust at the sight of it, glad that she was now too busy staring in horror and disgust to behave like a two year old. "You're...you're hideous."

Erik laughed. He didn't know why; it was hardly the appropriate thing to do. He knew that he should have been so overcome with anger that he wanted to kill the girl for saying such things, but for some absurd reason, he found the whole situation horrifically hilarious. Perhaps he had gone insane at last- the thought did cross his mind as he forced himself to stop laughing, feeling tears roll down his cheeks- or maybe the stress of the assassin and the death of his employee had turned to hysteria. Whatever the reason, Erik looked at the frightened girl in his grip and laughed like a madman in her face.

"You are an exceedingly stupid girl." He said once the laughter had stopped, wiping his eyes with his free hand before reaching down to pick up his mask, seeing her eyes watch his every move. He still had firm hold of her wrist, though he loosened his grip a little. "What gain would I have from haunting my own opera house or killing off my employees one by one? And kidnap? Marianne, you work for me, I wouldn't _need _to kidnap you. For God's sakes, stop thrashing about and listen to me! I was rehearsing with you when Sarah came running in, terrified after seeing the ghost, and I was playing the piano for your song when the murder occurred. You are being ridiculous and I should fire you now for what you have accused me of, you stupid wench."

Marianne fell silent and stopped thrashing about. Certain that she wasn't about to attack him again, Erik released his hold on her and let her sit down on the piano stool, taking the time to reposition the mask on his face properly with his back to the foolish girl. He was amazed that he had managed to stay relatively calm through her screaming accusations, sure that she was calm now also, but one problem remained; she knew that he was the Opera Ghost of Paris. There was only one thing he could do now, short of his old method of killing the said individual. Those murderous days were long gone though, and Erik felt a little proud as he decided what to do.

"Are you done throwing accusations at me?" he asked coldly, seeing her nod silently. Taking a deep breath, decision made, he continued. "For all your stupidity, not to mention your outrageous disrespect, you were correct about me. I was once the Opera Ghost. I assure you that I am a changed man now, intent on doing the right thing and helping people like yourself. My time as the Opera Ghost was a part of my dark life that I am not proud of and I hope to leave it in the past where it belongs."

Marianne seemed to register the information, her eyes warily flitting over his face before looking down at her hands, which lay almost lifelessly in her lap. Then, with a tear rolling down her face, she looked up again.

"I am...I am so sorry, Sir." She whispered, sounding as if she might burst into tears any second, her cheeks glowing a painful red in embarrassment. "I just...I know of the myth, and the fire which destroyed the music and the Populaire...I am scared, as are the others. We fear that the murder on stage will not be the last. Do you...can you forgive my outburst?"

"I can, and I will, provided that you mention nothing of this to anyone." Erik warned.

"Of course." She added hastily, her voice growing brighter and stronger again as she sat up straight and wiped her streaming eyes. "Only...I am curious. I always have been curious regarding the Opera Ghost myth and the kidnap. May I ask you...I don't know how to put it...what made you become the Opera Ghost, terrorising the Populaire? You are so talented, I would have thought-"

Erik stopped her with a look. Did he want to tell her this? It was the subject matter only ever spoken with Nadir, usually after a difficult spell of depression or anguish that left him threatening to kill himself and gave Nadir the hard task of piecing his sanity back together. Of course he didn't want to tell her- but his heart was crying out for sympathy and compassion, for someone to pity and sympathise with his plight. Perhaps, just perhaps, Marianne would be able to give him a little comfort.

"If I...if I were to tell you a little of my past, Marianne, you would have to promise to never repeat such a thing again." Erik warned her in a quiet voice, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable, as if she could squash him without a second thought.

"Of course." She replied quickly, her eyes wide with the thought that he might actually share the truth of the myth with her, of all people. "And besides, I only wish to know what made such a pleasant, kind man murder and terrorise. That is all."

"That is all?" Erik barked a laugh, sitting on the floor with a small sigh as he began to neaten the pile of Don Juan music, his eyes clouded with the memories of the past. "You said it yourself, Marianne. I am hideous. Hideous enough to earn hatred from my mother, to be put on display as a freak show by gypsies and to be hated and turned away by the woman I loved with all my heart. This face is a curse, a curse that slowly poisoned my soul and turned me into a monster on the inside as well as the outside. No-one can see past it, no-one can accept it, and so I lived in the cellar of society. My music was never enough to make anyone accept me. I can create beauty, all kinds of beauty, and yet not a shred of this beauty is on my face. You know, I became a guardian to a little girl in my time as the ghost. I sang to her, taught her the music of heaven, cared for her, comforted her, and she loved me. I loved her too, romantically once she suddenly became a young woman, but as soon as she saw my face she despised me. She crushed me, Marianne, and I became the worst I ever was. Even when I built torture chambers in Persia, even when I murdered as a child- never have I been more evil than when she crushed me and fled to the arms of a-a fop! Love...all I ever wanted in life was to be loved for myself. I gave that woman everything, and yet she still didn't love me. But I have come to realise two things, Marianne. Two things that I wished I had known before. I now know that love is a lie, a facade, an illusion that will make you reach dizzying heights of joy before you plummet back down to the depths of your own hell- reality. And I also know, in this facade, we do not love who is right or who we ought to love, but who our hearts tell us. If only I had understood that then...but never mind. You asked me about the Opera Ghost myth, not for a pathetic ramble about my own wasted heart."

Erik looked up from the neatly arranged music and found Marianne in a fitful state of tears, sobbing silently into her hands. Alarmed, he got up and prodded her shoulder, not knowing if he ought to say or do something to comfort her, but she began to calm herself down when she heard that he had finished speaking, wiping her streaming eyes again as he watched.

"I am so sorry for calling you hideous." She whispered, looking like a scared child again. "I am the hideous one. Everyone is. You...you suffered such horror and yet you are a changed man today. How can this be?"

Erik didn't know if her question was rhetorical. Even if she demanded an answer, he wouldn't have one to give. Marianne may sob over his story, pitying him in a womanly fashion if she so desired, but Erik saw nothing but stupidity in his story. Over and over he would ask himself- why did he ever show Christine his face? Why did he ever hope that she would see him differently to all the others? Because of love- Erik might have laughed, had he been alone and not with a hysterical young woman who was crying in guilt over him. He had thought that he knew love, once upon a time, when he had given everything to little Christine Daae, or when Christine Daae was suddenly a beautiful young woman who looked up to him as a guardian and protector. But love had crushed him- love had turned him into a madman. Erik understood love the least of anyone, and yet he was still fascinated by it. _All I ever wanted was to be loved for myself...if I am the Phantom it is because man's hatred made me so, if I am to be saved it is because your love redeems me..._

"I suppose, then, that this masked man sighted by Sarah is an attack or joke directed at you?"

Erik looked up, startled out of his musings by the calm, collected voice of the woman who had been crying like a child. Now, she sat very still, face still red and wet from the tears, but all trace of the hysteria gone from her eyes, which were now clear and staring. Observant.

"You are a very observant girl, Marianne." Erik commented lightly, standing up stiffly and taking the music with him, gesturing that they should leave the room, seeing how outside the window the sky was now a dark blue streaked with the orange of sunset. Truly magnificent. "You are correct, or so I believe. I will not let my employees suffer, and as you would imagine Marianne, I have many enemies."

"I will keep an eye and an ear out for you."

And with that, she nodded once in his direction before leaving the room silently, hurrying away down a corridor, off to do whatever young sopranos did in the evenings. Erik locked the practise room with a tired sigh, feeling utterly drained. Nadir was going to go berserk; first deciding to show Don Juan, then telling the lead about his past as the Opera Ghost.

Once in the office and with Nadir nowhere to be seen, Erik looked out upon the city of London, the sky now dark and all traces of a fiery sunset gone. The stars were not yet visible, or perhaps they had been smothered by the choking smog of London. Erik took of his mask and looked once again at himself, using the window to see his reflection. Ugly, rough, distorted, yellow...

"Oh, Christine." He sighed, sounding like a disapproving teacher more than a shattered admirer.

That night he slept nightmare free and woke to the golden promise of a new day and a new chance to put things right, to capture this mimic, and to end his suffering for good.


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hi everyone! So this is what could be called 'Round 2' of Phantom vs. Fake Phantom, the performance of Don Juan Triumphant!**

**HISTORICAL ERROR: Since writing and putting this story online, I discovered that the Eiffel Tower construction started in 1887 and it actually opened in 1889. As this story is set in the 1870's, my description of Paris in an earlier chapter which mentions the Eiffel Tower is inaccurate. Oops! **

**Thank you so much to those who reviewed last chapter; TMara, Filhound, icanhearthedrums, Tangosalsa and Anna. I really appreciate the continued support! Also, a big thank you to those who followed, fav-ed or read this story. **

**Now I shall be quiet and let you read the next chapter. :-)**

**Twenty Nine- Here, I Bring The Finished Score; Don Juan Triumphant!  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

Once the new opera for the summer season had been announced, the posters already being pinned haphazardly anywhere that Nadir's lackeys could find the space, an air of complete insanity overcame the Black Rose Opera House, turning what had been a melancholy, grief stricken collection of those under suspicion into a whirlwind of panic, absurdity and general mayhem. Every day the bumbling orchestra would be summoned to rehearsal, music thrown at them at a pace which both overwhelmed and astounded them. Erik's insistence that the music was learned as quickly as possible whilst maintaining a good standard meant that he regularly found himself watching these rehearsals, pacing up and down the rows of musicians, bellowing commands and demonstrating how such pieces should be played until his fingers throbbed. The conductor simply watched him as he took this undesirable task upon himself, eyes bulging in fear, quivering when Erik accused him of some grave mistake.

The dancers endured similar affairs, so nervous as to what their stressed employer might shout at them that they managed to trip and stumble like toddlers, earning themselves a harsh lecture regarding 'professionalism' and 'performance skills'. But as the days dragged on, the scenery began to look realistic, the costumes were sewn and the performers began to reach the high standard demanded of them.

As the proposed opening night approached, the 4th August, Erik found himself becoming more agitated by the day. This performance would be the first time in months that the Black Rose had been open to audiences and Erik did to dare to tell anyone, even the mellow Nadir, that he honestly worried that no-one would come. Publicity had been bad for them since the murder of that poor stage hand, leaving them all in a state of unease and fretting that their recent successes were now over, but a few weeks before the opening night, requests for boxes and seats started to flood in, overwhelming poor Nadir and sending Erik into a flurry of happy panic. Suddenly he could find fault in all the performances, a costume was ripped, a piece of scenery was broken- but secretly, despite the petty nagging of their employer, everyone was delighted; the Black Rose Opera House was set to win the hearts of the Londoners again.

Despite previous doubts as to whether his casting had been entirely correct, Erik found himself watching the last of the rehearsals with a smile on his face. He did call out a few angry corrections to the conductor, irritated by the man's lack of expression, but the rage over that was nothing compared to the delight he now felt in regards to his singers. Daniel was proving to be a perfect Don Juan- Erik had doubted the boy's ability to do so, seeing only a fluffy haired joker- but somehow a seductive tenor had flourished and was now making Erik want to yell praise to the boy. Marianne was also proving to be a fine Aminta, having resolved the issue of how she kept laughing as Daniel became the dark, seductive Don Juan. The girl was keeping her word regarding Erik his past as the Phantom resolutely and Erik was understandably pleased about this, having previously worried that she might gossip his past to just one person, who would then tell another and another...

But Marianne was proving to be a trustworthy employee, and having heard no reports of the strange mimic in the rafters from her, Erik could watch the rehearsal easily, knowing that his plan was set. The chandelier, though small and plain compared to the one he had so expertly destroyed in Paris, was large enough to cause some damage and potentially harm many people; Erik knew that his imposter would not be able to resist the allure of bringing it crashing down. The huge ropes that held the monstrosity in place were helpfully situated in the rafters and walkways above the wings of the stage, easily accessible by a ladder, and Erik planned to wait there for the imposter. When the fiend did appear, Erik would have his Punjab lasso ready.

Content with the standard of the opera and with his plan secured within his mind, Erik agreed that the opening night should go ahead as planned. And so on the 4th of August, the Black Rose once again descended into a frenzied panic, only this time in full costume.

The summer air was hot and sticky and as Erik raged around, barking orders at anyone that appeared to look anything less than panicked, it felt as if he were wading through a large vat of treacle. The sweat beaded on his face and his mask threatened to slip, irritating his skin and contributing massively to his temper. As the heat became unbearable, he tossed his usual black jacket aside and rolled up the sleeves of his sweat dampened white shirt, too hot and bothered to feel conscious of the pale, skinny and scarred arms that were now on display for anyone to gawp at. Worried that the hideous heat might deter the aristocracy- Erik had seen a great many ladies faint in summer at the Opera Populaire- he began to snap at anyone he laid his eyes on, and was very nearly punched on the nose by Violet for his efforts. The girl was red in the face and complaining about the corset she was wearing, as were all the dancers, but Erik didn't care for whingeing at the best of times, let alone when it felt as if his brain were roasting inside his skull.

The seamstresses were dashing around, mending tears and making last minute alterations and upon hearing a ghastly, high pitched noise from the orchestra Erik felt his temper explode. He dashed to the pit, nearly foaming at the mouth, but he arrived too late; the incompetent Mr Tanner had already brought the cello string to breaking point, and it had snapped.

Of course, it was too late to replace the string. When Nadir came dashing across the stage and informed everyone that the audience was being allowed inside now, Erik seized the string and threw it at his overzealous friend, in that moment wishing that he could wallop the foolish man around the head with the useless cello.

"Good God, you villain, can you not stop raging around like a bull and calm down? Your stress removes all the joy from this- you will ruin the show!" Nadir snapped, annoyed because Erik's string assault had caused him to drop the pile of spare scores he had been taking to the very orchestra that were now shooting the poor Mr Tanner dirty looks, blaming him for their employers heightened bad mood. "Please, if you hold any care or consideration for the rest of us poor fools, try to relax a little!"

"Relax? RELAX?!" Erik demanded, his outrage causing the volume of his outburst to increase as he spoke. "You dare to suggest that I might be able to relax with an opera house, an incompetent cellist and the upcoming brawl with an assassin on my mind?!"

Nadir, a veteran of such outbursts, merely rolled his eyes, delivered the scores and dragged his friend offstage before the entering audience were greeted with the pre-show performance of their argument. Ignoring Erik's hisses of anger, Nadir took the raging man to the very corner of backstage; away from the fussing performers who had all congregated in the wings, and immediately produced a length of good, strong rope.

"Here, you fool, for the lasso." Nadir said uncomfortably, his face and his voice betraying him. Nadir had been uncertain as to whether the plan was such a good idea, fearing that the assassin might overpower Erik or decide to ruin the show another way, but in the last week he had told Erik that his doubts were gone. Now, Erik peered into the face and eyes of his old friend, detecting nerves and worry. The sight of that in his friends eyes made Erik feel very strange; he knew that Nadir cared about him, as he had been the one to patch him together several times already in his life, but this unspoken fear seemed different somehow. He reached out and patted the Persian on the arm, not sure if he should do or say anything else.

"I'm sure that this will all be over painlessly, Nadir." He said quietly, his use of Nadir's real name instead of 'Khan' or 'Daroga' designed to tell him that he understood that anxiety, that unspoken worry. "Then we can run this opera house without fear or worry- you can go gallivanting off to somewhere exotic and not leave me to assassins and paperwork without your capable help, if you like, and perhaps we can even take a holiday and visit somewhere new?"

Nadir shook Erik off and rolled his eyes, colouring a little as he realised that Erik had seen his doubts and was now trying to comfort him. He shuddered at the thought of Erik ever doing such a thing again, feeling no better for his feeble attempts to look to the future and ignore the ghastly present.

"You are awful at consoling people, you know." He said in a scornful voice, making Erik's mood darken again. He began to make the lasso, his eyes glittering with fury. "You sound as if you are a young man convincing some stupid girl to forgive your infidelity. Holiday- pah!"

"Fine then, Khan, scorn me all you wish." Erik replied in a bitter voice, finishing the lasso and holding it expertly, suddenly looking sinister and deadly. Nadir wondered why he had doubted Erik- he was still the Phantom in ways, capable as ever and ready to take down this imposter with all the grim satisfaction of a man who had seen and conquered such things many times before. "I am going to wait in the rafters all through the show- I can't risk missing him. And you should stay in Box 5 for the whole show too, to keep an eye on the performance. If you see anything odd, or things are about to take a turn for the worse in the form of our slippery mimic, fire your gun. It should cause enough panic in the crowd to render the assassin unable to act- but don't fire unless you are sure! The last thing we need is another disaster that could have been avoided."

Nadir nodded and hurried off, knowing what Erik meant and understanding the urgency of the moment. Erik watched him go before wishing his employees good luck, hurrying off to the ladder and climbing up into the rafters and walkways.

He had taken the time to learn his ways around this suspended maze, walking with practised ease and stepping from board to board with little concentration needed, allowing his sharp eyes to glance all around him. It was already dusty up here, smelling a little like an old abandoned attic, the cobwebs and dust momentarily distracting him as he decided that someone should clean them away in order to keep the opera house as new as possible.

Various ropes and pulleys were hanging around him, rolled up scenery ready to be hung, but very little else. The stagehands were masters at walking along these precarious walkways, undaunted by the lack of security up here. The fall from such a height could easily kill you, Erik thought grimly as he at last found the pulley for the chandelier, not the best venue for a fight. But then Erik was also a master of the rafters, having stalked and haunted them in Paris. They had been a useful place to stand and drop various bits of dust and scenery onto Carlotta- he remembered with a smirk how once he had released a torrent of cobwebs and thus spiders onto the screeching diva, delighting in her hysterical reaction which had ended rehearsal and earned the perverted Buquet a lecture.

The show had begun whilst Erik was smiling to himself, having taken a trip into his less morbid memories, and so he forced himself to focus. It was difficult to keep his eyes darting around the dusty, gloomy walkways when he really wanted to focus on the performance unfolding underneath where he stood, but he forced himself to merely listen and not watch.

Time lost all meaning stood in the dark and the choking dust and Erik soon found himself irritated and bored out of his mind. Where was the imposter? Could the fool not muster the courage to stage the ultimate attack against the Black Rose? Enraged and bored, Erik found himself paying less attention to his surroundings, drawn in by the show. Soon, he was peering down at his employees, hooked by the flawless music and the brilliant acting, even laughing quietly as the audience gasped at the fiery, passionate mood of the opera; it would seem that the aristocrats of London were just as appalled by the content as the French had been in Paris.

Hours had passed since Erik had first climbed into the rafters, and with no activity in the gloom, he was now fully focused upon the performance. As Marianne's solo began, her clear voice ringing up and into the auditorium as effortless as a bird gliding on the wind, Erik felt a warm smile fill his face.

_Thud!_

And suddenly, in that ultimate lapse in concentration, someone jumped down onto the wobbling wooden platform and sent their fist straight into Erik's gut, causing him to drop his lasso. At first he didn't quiet realise what had happened, shocked by the sudden blow, but then his senses came back to him and he immediately leapt onto another platform, wincing a little. The attacker, a flurry of black cape and shining boots, followed with less certainty than Erik, and received an onslaught of several punches to his face from Erik, who took advantage of the other mans hesitancy to move from platform to platform.

Erik found himself laughing as he jumped from platform to platform with effortless precision, shaking the ropes and willing the man to fall as he messily followed, nearly tumbling to the ground several times. The assailant gripped Erik by the shoulder, trying to force him to the edge, but Erik dived out of the way, kicking out at him but missing by an inch.

"Now, will you tell me who you are? For you are clearly not the Phantom of the Opera, despite your convincing costume!" Erik demanded him to answer in taunting tones, reaching out with one hand and successfully smacking him around the face. The imposter had a white half mask upon his face, much like the mask Erik had previously worn in his Paris days. "And while you are at it, you might also wish to tell me what on Earth you hope to achieve with this harebrained mockery!"

A sudden punch from an unexpected angle took him off balance, forcing him back with a frightening stumble, but he managed to regain his balance and take an offending swipe back, aware that bellow him Marianne had just reached her final note, earning adoring praise from the delighted audience. He could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins, heightening the clarity of the situation and the anger that was bubbling beneath his flushed skin. He could see that the attacker was young behind his mask; he could not have been any more than 30. Hoping that such youth would make him inexperienced as opposed to young and strong, Erik advanced again with malice.

The attacker dodged the attack this time with a cold laugh, his distinctive French accent a shock to Erik's now English attuned ears.

"Of course you wish to know such things, for once being in the dark and unable to seize control over everything in your ugly fist." The man taunted in French, nearly purring as he stepped back a little, as if to assess Erik with those glinting eyes. "And of course, as much as I pity snivelling wretches, I cannot oblige you. All that you need to know, my angry friend, is that you are no longer in control. As much as you may like to think it, you have lost your dominance. I control you now."

Erik snarled and lunged at the man, shoving him hard so that he tripped backwards, flailing like a child. He did regain his balance and manage to leap to another platform, much to Erik's chagrin. Spurred on by the stranger's taunts, Erik leapt after him with a determined hiss.

"Why don't you come closer and let me scar your face for you, so that you have a reason to wear that mask?!" he spat with venom, this time making sure that he did not trip on the unsteady platform as he made for the infuriating mimic, whose only response was to laugh again like a maniac, pleased with the way Erik was snarling and hissing like a wild animal.

Bellow them onstage, Daniel had at last joined Marianne, dressed in the dark, mysterious clothing of Don Juan, his voice calling out to her in seductive tones. She played her part faultlessly, pretending to fall into a trance at his voice, her eyes wild with delight and the promise of desire and passion. As they began to duet, the orchestra producing heavenly accompaniment as the dancers twirled and gazed at Don Juan, as if also enthralled, Erik balled his fists and forced himself to ignore the beauty unfolding onstage, keeping his eyes locked on the figure of the imposter, who was leaning back a little, pleased with himself.

"I must say, I am impressed with what you have managed to create here, in the dregs of society in this miserable excuse for a city." The imposter drawled, keeping Erik locked into place with a look that made him want to tip the imposter over the edge of the walkways. He forced himself to remain still, to wait for the right moment to attack, instead of being moved by the anger that the imposter was hoping to induce within him. It was hard not to act impulsively, seeing the man's taunting expression and imagining what it would be like to charge at him and ruin that smug, youthful face. It was monstrous to think the things that Erik felt swirl in his brain at that moment, but the old Phantom instinct had taken over. He simply could not help it. "Rather ludicrous, isn't it? A psychopathic beast managing to create a successful opera house when he once terrorised one...dear me. But I simply must ask you, as I have been dying to know...did you kidnap the singers here too? I suppose none of them compare to dear little Christine, do they? Dear little Christine who, so they say, was so horrified to see your hideous face she fainted clean away and was convinced the devil had visited her! So romantic."

And then that was it. The imposter had managed to light the gunpowder inside Erik, causing him to roar in complete and utter insanity as he leapt at the man, knocking him to the wood of the platform, keeping him there by locking both hands securely round his neck. He squeezed enough to discomfort the man, but no to kill him, intent on drawing this particular death out for as long as he could. But first...he would demand answers. He would draw every last speck of information out of this disgusting wretch until he laid gurgling and squirming in his grasp, and then he would kill him and relish in it. Driven by madness and too insane to use any sense or reason in his actions, Erik did not consider that the man might have a weapon with him.

"WHO ARE YOU, YOU WRETCH!?" he demanded, blinded by anger as he gripped the man's neck, not realising that the stranger was not thrashing or begging, as someone about to be killed might. "TELL ME, YOU FILTHY DOG, OR-"

But suddenly Erik saw the assassin's unusual calm behaviour, but too late, because that was when the knife the man had been hiding in his grip was plunged into Erik's shoulder. The pain was excruciating, making him yell as the assassin twisted the blade still embedded in his flesh, pushing him backwards off of him to lie on the wooden board. As the sharp blade was ripped from his shoulder, and as the fiery hell of pain ripped through Erik's entire body, causing him to sob, the blood began to pour from the wound. It bloomed across the white of his shirt, the stench of iron heavy in the air making Erik choke, nauseated, but that was when the assassin pulled him up by the very shoulder that was injured. He pulled Erik in close, so that when he spoke Erik could feel the man's odourless, cool breath hit his face.

"You poor thing, thinking you could beat me with such a simple plan." The man whispered with a cold smile, sounding delighted. Erik tried to move, to thrash about and release himself from the imposters iron grip, but any movement made his shoulder burn as if someone had slipped a red hot coal, straight from the fire, into his shirt. "You're too trusting, my angry friend, you assumed that I would use no weapon. You're not the cruel, evil man you once were, it seems."

The man easily shifted so that Erik was precariously near the edge. He held him from behind, laughing sadistically as Erik was forced to stare down at the floor of backstage, digging his talon like nails into Erik's open wound. On the stage, the cast were taking their bows and lapping up the applause, which rang like thunder throughout the auditorium.

"Expect demands to follow." The attacker whispered into Erik's ear.

Then, with one swift motion, he pushed Erik off of the platform. Erik fell like a stone, unable to put up any resistance to the man's intentions, and he felt the air rushing around him for all of a second. Then came extreme pain before it all went black, his body impacting with the hard floor.

_Light. Warmth. The feeling of the sun, the feeling of fresh air, a summer breeze perhaps... The sky a blue silk scarf, the clouds soft and wispy, the sun lighting it all...and her. She stood, smiling at him, her hair wild and resting on her shoulders, her eyes alight with hope and love as she looked at him._

"_Christine!" he cried, feeling his heart implode with the joy that she was there, and smiling for him, just for him, so filled with love and joy and everything he had dreamt of-!_

_But she did not open her arms for him, or smile at his words. She walked straight past him, and Erik turned and saw that Raoul was stood there behind him, arms outstretched for her to fall into. Erik watched, feeling something in his shatter as she linked with his arm and walked away, far away from him. He fell to his knees, watching them go, his body suddenly overcome with pain...awful pain...burning pain..._

"Sir? Sir?! Please, open your eyes! Go away, Daniel, go and fetch help!"

Footsteps running away from him, footsteps running towards him, the ground moving a little under the weight of the footsteps, the sound of someone breathing heavily, the sound of tears that were being battled against, the sound of blood beating in his ears.

"Marianne, what are you- Jesus Christ! Erik! What happened to him?! Don't gawp at me, answer me! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!"

"I didn't do anything! I don't know what happened- I found him lying here after I came offstage! Don't be angry with me, I swear that I didn't do this to him! Oh God! He's been stabbed as well- who would do this?!"

"What do you mean 'as well'?!"

"He must have been pushed from the rafters! What else could have happened?! I've sent Daniel to fetch help, but what if he dies?!

The sound of sobbing, the sound of an exasperated sigh. The feel of someone probing, the burn as fingertips brush an open wound, the cool hand against a bruised skull, bliss amongst the fiery burn of hellish pain.

"Stop crying, you stupid girl, and use some common sense! He's breathing and his pulse feels steady. Go and fetch some hot water and a cloth- I will stay here with him. Don't gawp at me again, just go!"

Footsteps running away from him, a cool hand against his forehead, the burn of pain threatening to push him back into the confusing darkness of nothing- and then the heady, thick scent of herbs beneath his nose, dragging him out of this darkness, opening his eyes.

Erik gripped onto the material of his clothes as he managed to open his heavy lids, fighting with the urge to cry out in the pain, the terrible pain that was overwhelming his entire body. The room around him swam into focus, his brain trying to clear the haze of confusion, and then Nadir's worried face swam into view and Erik felt immediately calm. There were two sorts of pain making him wince and writhe; one an aching, dull, relentless throb that covered his whole body without mercy, the other a sharp, fierce burning sensation that was only in his shoulder, making him want to scream in agony. He tried to move, to find a more comfortable position to lie in, but the movement brought such unbearable torture that he gagged and choked, gasping out as Nadir hovered over him, unable to do anything to stop that endless torment.

"God Nadir, it hurts." He rasped out, managing to spit the words out before gagging again. Nadir, unsure of what Erik would want him to do, simply reached out and gripped his hand. Erik felt Nadir tense as his eyes rolled back, near delirious with the agony. "Curse that damned imposter! Oh dear God..."

"You're being very brave, old friend. You're going to be fine; someone has already gone to find some help." Nadir tried to soothe him, using the voice that usually made Erik want to punch him and tell him to stop being such a patronising bigot. Now, he felt oddly calmed by the soft voice, finding some peace in the fact that someone cared whether he was alive or not. Erik tried to remain still, lying on the hard floor, but the twinges refused to cease.

Soon Marianne came barrelling over to them, clutching a bowl of hot water and several cloths that she had managed to salvage from somewhere, flopping down next to Erik and smiling down at him with a sigh of relief upon seeing his eyes open. She removed his mask with dutiful confidence, ignoring Nadir's sudden gape of astonishment as she seemed to have no reaction to the horrific deformity, simply soaking the cloth and moping at the blood and cuts all over Erik's face. Too tired to explain as to why Marianne seemed unaffected, Erik closed his eyes and let the conversation unfold.

"I suppose that the person responsible for your injuries is that imposter that you were worried about, Sir?"

"What-! How do you-! Erik, HOW ON EARTH DOES THE GIRL KNOW ABOUT THE IMPOSTER?! AND WHY DID SHE LIFT YOUR MASK?!"

"Did Sir not tell you about the conversation we had a few months ago, Mr Khan?"

"No! 'Sir' did NOT tell me about a conversation of any kind! ERIK!"

Erik opened his eyes wearily. Nadir was red in the face, resembling a volcano about to erupt, whilst Marianne looked mildly amused. He fixed Nadir with a hard look, daring him to keep ranting and yelling like a child that had been kept in the dark and was now whingeing about it, sighing irritably as he decided how to explain this to the already irate Persian, who looked now as if he wanted to tip the steaming bowl of water over Marianne's head.

"Nadir, calm down before I order Marianne to tip that water over you." Erik demanded hoarsely, swearing loudly in Persian as he jarred something. "Marianne knows about the imposter. She also knows a little of my past, after she wrongly thought that I was terrorising the stage. She knows everything about the situation."

Nadir stopped looking as if he wanted to hit someone, instead looking confused and a little disbelieving, his eyes widening before narrowing incredulously.

"Everything as in...?" he prompted.

"The horror of my past as the Phantom, the stress of the present and the impending doom of the future." Erik replied wearily, seeing how Marianne looked uncomfortable as Nadir glared at her, already in a strop that he hadn't been included in this earlier. It would have been comical to watch, seeing Nadir almost jealous of the girl, who was shifting and looking anything but at ease, but Erik was in no mood to see the funny side of things.

"So?" Marianne verbally prodded him, putting the mask back onto his face and sitting back, bringing her knees up to her chest as she began to rock herself. "Do you think that this was the work of the imposter you were trying to contend with?"

"There is no doubt about it." He replied in a bitter voice, failing again to shift into a more comfortable position and hissing in pain as he moved. "The evil wretch told me to expect demands to follow, which I take to mean threats. The viper managed to overcome me with a knife- I didn't expect him to have a weapon! Foolish of me, considering that he killed a stagehand simply to mimic me!"

Nadir sighed irritably as Marianne made sympathetic noises, taking off his jacket and manoeuvring it under Erik's head to form a pathetic makeshift cushion. Erik made himself smile a thank you, but Nadir could see that it was forced and looked away, muttering under his breath something about ungrateful people.

"You know, the only way that these attacks will ever stop is if you try to catch the man." Marianne said in a quiet voice, causing Nadir to bark a laugh, turning round to inspect Erik's wound, apparently already over his strop. He didn't like the girls input, that much was clear, but he seemed a little curious as to what she might suggest, though he tried to hide it through scorning her.

"Oh, and you don't think that we have already tried to do such a thing?!" he snapped, earning a light prod from Erik, who was becoming annoyed with all this fighting. "But go on; tell us, what would you suggest?"

"Well, a trap, I suppose. But if you already tried that, perhaps we should try to think of other ideas? Could you somehow track him? Catch him by surprise? Lure him out?" she shrugged, looking uncomfortable with all the attention, both Nadir's and Erik's eyes focused on her, frowning in concentration. She threw up her hands and went back to rocking to and fro. "Don't look at me like that! I'm not used to things such as this- it was only an idea."

But before anyone had the time to answer, or even comment on the suggestion at all, Daniel came rushing over to them with medical help in tow, already babbling madly when he saw that his employer was lying awake and uncomfortable on the floor, looking far less gruesome with some of the blood washed off of his face. Nadir watched as the doctor knelt beside Erik and began to talk to him in hushed tones, standing up and moving away from the cluster of people.

He rarely doubted Erik and his abilities; he'd never had cause to. But this imposter was proving to be a deadly enemy and clever too. Nadir wanted to catch the foul beast and get rid of him for good, letting Erik go back to living. But now, he was starting to worry. It was all good and well planning to catch the slippery mimic and gleefully imagining what life without the threat would be...but what if the mimic got to them first?

Nadir shivered, and looked away.


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: **** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Gaaaah I am so sorry for lack of updates! It has been one of those weeks where you end up a whole lot busier than you expected, and so certain things like fan fiction have to be put aside in favour of something else. *hangs head in shame* But I am hopefully back again without insane levels of stress, and here is chapter 30 for you!**

**As usual, lovely people have reviewed *smiles* and so I have to thank; PhantomLilac, TMara, BiancaR, Filhound, KitKat, Haquikah, RosieLilyIce93, Oliver Grey and Anna. **

**I think that poor Erik has been through many horrid experiences in my story (I feel mean now) and his...how shall I put it...mental state has been affected- as Haquikah rightly said, insanity draws closer! I don't think he was being stupid, just showing how stressed he was by coming up with a less than genius plan- he is only human, after all. :-) Enough of my ramblings, onto the story...**

**Thirty- Hide Your Face, So The World Will Never Find You  
(Black Rose Opera House)**

According to the doctor, he had been lucky. Erik gritted his teeth and thrashed in frustration, like a fish caught in dangerously shallow water, feeling the scream of torn muscles and the burn of the stab wound, all combining to form a morbidly flawless symphony of complete and utter agony. Indeed, the excruciating, lingering pain of broken ribs, cruelly torn muscles, the constant ache from the stab wound plus the beaten, battered and much abused wreck of what had been his dignity was a lucky consequence, considering the fact that he could have easily died. But such a point was of no comfort to the raging Erik, who had been stuck in this infuriating state of being bed-ridden for three agonising weeks now and had yet to receive any signs that he might be released from this embarrassingly pointless situation.

"You could have been looking at a permanent spinal injury and loss of mobility, falling from that height!" the stern faced doctor had ranted at him, stealing the accolade of 'Most Patronising Bigot' from Nadir and succeeding in making Erik hurl several items within his reach across the room, causing them to hit the wall with such force that they broke on impact. "You have been very lucky, Sir, very lucky indeed. That luck should remain if you remain on strict bed rest, with no attempts to return to your normal lifestyle unless I tell you that it is safe to do so."

Erik had been ready to leap- or rather stumble painfully- out of bed as soon as the infuriating man had left his bedroom, wanting to return immediately to the worrying process of running a chaotic opera house whilst also trying to hunt down a sadistic madman, but Nadir had held firm against the onslaught of verbal abuse Erik had fired at him, resolutely defending the doctor's orders and forcing Erik to remain in bed like a beached whale.

"You're lucky that I am humouring you and not sending you off to Antoinette where you might have the chance to rest properly!" Nadir had snapped, agitated and fighting the urge to slap his injured friend whilst he was stuck in his bed, quite unable to do anything to retaliate other than bellow meaningless curses. "Be quiet, stop whining like a child and take the time to heal properly. God's teeth, Erik, you will be the death of me! Why must you always be intent on getting yourself killed?!"

Another superior fool, ignorantly telling him that he was lucky to be stranded in such an embarrassingly hideous predicament. But that had been three weeks ago, three painful weeks ago, and still Erik lay bedridden and in horrible pain. He rolled, ignoring the scream of protest that came from a broken bone or bruised muscle somewhere in his abused body, and lay face down on his pillow, moaning with the frustration, unable to even muster the energy to get angry. He felt broken; a puppet whose master had let go of the strings, leaving him in a crumpled, saggy mess on the floor. I am Erik, Phantom of the Opera, Opera Ghost and ruthless genius, he thought with determination that fizzled out into miserable defeat, but I am not the man I used to be. Nadir, with all his fanciful ideas and pathetic words, would say that such a transformation should only be celebrated, but all Erik could think as he moaned into the pillow was that if he was still the cold, ruthless Phantom he had once been, perhaps he would have been able to bring down the imposter on the walkways.

The burning memory of that failure of an attempt and the pain that had followed made Erik roll back onto his back with a pained sigh, staring up at the ceiling and feeling an odd pang of misery that he could only assume to be some form of warped homesickness; a wish that he was back in his underground lair, with architectural brilliance and gothic ambiance surrounding him, not plain white walls and nondescript furniture that meant nothing. Where was the beauty, the majesty, the power? Erik wanted to get up and walk about in the fresh air to clear this fog of madness that had settled on him over the last three bed ridden weeks; the boredom and lack of activity had left him with far too much time to think and to dwell and such a thing was never good, for the thoughts alone of horrors he had encountered in life had the destructive power to leave him in a broken, mournful state of helplessness. That melancholy state was the situation he found himself lying in now, and he loathed it.

The thought that somewhere in this grey city the very man who had put Erik in this state was most probably laughing to himself, perfectly comfortable and content, made Erik tremble with rage and a malevolence that even he found frightening. The pain and agony he wanted to wreak on the filthy scum who had stabbed him and pushed him from the rafters was enough to make him desperate to heal, so that he might finally set a more appropriate plan into action in order to hunt down and destroy this low-life lout. Nadir and Marianne had come to his bedside a few brief times in the last three weeks, in hope of discussing the predicament and finding a more effective solution to this clearly dangerous problem, but the ideas that were being thrown around were laughable, if not completely ridiculous.

Marianne, whose first few intelligent suggestions had sparked a new hope within Nadir and Erik, had succeeded only in dreaming up the most preposterous schemes. At first, Erik had been so amused by the girl's nonsensical idea to lay net traps and string the imposter up like a piece of meat when he triggered them with his foot that he had been convinced that she had been jesting in order to cheer him up, but his hysteria had mortified her for her idea had been serious. It had apparently not occurred to the girl that a great number of people walked through the wings and the walkways every day, so the trap would be more likely to capture a poor, unsuspecting employee than a murderous assassin. Nadir, whose dislike for the singer and her knowledge of Erik's past was becoming more venomous by the day, took great delight in informing her of the flaws, yet did not manage to produce a satisfactory plan of his own. The situation was bordering on insanity.

In the end, the miniscule collection of ideas that were credible- though barely so- consisted of just two weak plans, the third creating a rift between Erik and Nadir as they argued over it bitterly. Erik had spurned the other two ideas with a scorn that infuriated both Nadir and Marianne, seeing no brilliance in a plan to repeat the Don Juan plan only with another event similar to one of the Opera Populaire, or the near impossible suggestion to somehow track the imposter through the threats he was supposed to deliver to them shortly- how such a plan would work Erik could not even begin to think.

But his idea, the plan that he was defending resolutely despite Nadir's obstinate dismissal and Marianne's sisterly worries, was something else altogether. He had suggested, quite sure of his idea's brilliance, that instead of creeping around and hoping to catch the imposter unaware, that they should openly challenge the conniving mimic, inviting him to settle the score like a man, in a duel of some kind. Erik, even laying in bed feeling the constant reminder of his last failure through aches and burning pains, was very sure of his ability to bring down the imposter in a planned duel but his idea had impressed no-one, instead earning him fussing and lectures from his two "devoted" carers.

"I cannot honestly think of an idea to trump the idiocy of that plan, Erik." Nadir had replied instantly, giving the idea no consideration. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because clearly being bruised and bed ridden isn't dramatic enough for you. Do be quiet and stop spouting utter rubbish before I call someone to sedate you."

"Mr Khan is right, Sir." Marianne had agreed in a quiet voice, flinching a little from the look of contempt that Nadir shot at her as she dared to show some concern for her employer. "It would be foolish and dangerous to engage in such a fight, especially when you are in such a state of ill health. Besides, you cannot be sure that he would even agree to such a thing-"

"-but he would agree, Marianne. There is absolutely no doubt about it." Erik was still sure of this now, remembering the conversation with an irritated sigh as he cursed both Nadir and Marianne under his breath, still staring up at the depressingly dull ceiling as he remembered every detail of how that talk had ended. "I saw the delight in that sadistic madman's eyes as he pushed me from those damned walkways- he is an arrogant man, despite all his cunning ideas, and he would not pass up a chance to destroy my confidence as well as killing me. He is dramatic- what could possibly be more dramatic than a gentlemanly duel?"

"Well, whether this psychopath would accept your supposedly gentlemanly offer is entirely irrelevant, seeing as you will not be challenging him to this duel!" Nadir had dived in quickly, bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt, so angry that he had trembled standing at Erik's bedside. Erik remembered how, amongst the anger and the annoyance that he was faced with such idiocy, Nadir's eyes had been a whirlpool of worry and fear. He knew well enough, having lived through such emotions himself, that such a foul combination was enough to make anyone act irrationally. "You would simply not survive such an ordeal, Erik, look at you! You can't even move from your bed!"

Erik growled in frustration, thumping the mattress beneath him with a curled fist, hating how Nadir had changed so much in recent weeks. He had transformed from a mellow, easy going mediator to a harsh, angry pessimist who now took advantage of Erik's lack of mobility to force authority over him. Just the memory of the words, spoken in that disbelieving tone that was enough to provoke even the calmest of people, filled Erik with a burning desire to get out of this cursed bed and back to his normal routine.

Feeling around under the heavy covers with tentative hands, wary of the pain he might cause if his fingers brushed a tender rib or bruised bone, Erik found that when he gingerly touched his legs he did not recoil or flinch in terrible pain. In fact, the faint twinge when he pressed the flesh gently was perfectly tolerable, compared to the pains of his upper body. His ribs and collar bone might be aching and complaining of the strain, but all Erik needed to walk were his legs. Determined to get out of this prison, he slowly began to attempt to sit up.

Shifting slowly and letting out a low hiss of pain as muscles all over his body cried out for him to stop, Erik managed to use his protesting arms to drag his abused body up to sitting position. The blood rush to his head made the world spin, his head suddenly heavy and unwieldy on his neck, but he waited with surprising patience for the uncomfortable sensation to pass, slipping his legs gently from underneath the warm cocoon of covers out into the open again. Feeling much better to feel the hard floorboards beneath his feet, he used all his determination to grip the bedpost and force himself to stand upright. His ribs screamed as he stretched, ignoring the pain for the bliss of being out of that bed and standing up, and then with a bubble of optimism bursting inside his chest, Erik propelled himself forwards. He stumbled madly across the floor, reaching out to grab the wooden chest of drawers that stood against the far wall for support as he began to open the drawers painstakingly slowly, finding his clothes and looking at them with a satisfied smile. Oh, the comfort of an immaculate white shirt, the stiff black jacket, the elegant look that he prided himself upon. He hated to look unkempt; wearing clothes again instead of foolish looking baggy pyjamas would be a delight.

It was a harder battle than he had anticipated to get the clothes on, finding pains he had not been aware of when lying motionless in a comfortable bed as he struggled and stumbled with the effort the force the clothes onto his weak body, jarring various limbs and inflicting unnecessary pain on himself as he tugged and pulled. But after a whole fifteen agonising minutes of struggle, he was dressed, and he immediately felt better as he caught site of himself in the mirror, seeing smart clothes if nothing else pleasing. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his face, not allowing his fingers to linger on the scarred flesh that made up the deformed side of his face, before tidying his hair and putting the discreet flesh-coloured mask over the offensive ugliness.

The battle to put shoes on was such agony that he nearly threw himself back down onto the bed, giving up with this fight to return to a state of normality, but he bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to bend and strain his broken ribs to the point of excruciating torture just to get the stupid things onto his feet. But once they were on, and he could stand up again with more ease than the last time, he felt alive.

Taking the time to find his folder of scores, he soon had them in his grip and was ready to get back to normality. Slowly, but steadfastly, Erik set off out of his bedroom prison and was soon walking with growing ease down the corridors, down the spiral stairs, through the wings and to the stage. He took in the smells and sights of his opera house, his creation, with a growing smile on his face. That was until he reached the wings and consequently the stage. Then, the fanciful ideas and delight of being out of bed again crumbled, falling away to horror and then anger.

It was, in short, complete and utter chaos. No-one was rehearsing, the instruments were cruelly discarded and covered in dust, the place was filthy, scenery had broken and was lying around useless, on closer inspection someone had actually made a hole in one of the cello's left lying about and there was no-one doing anything even remotely productive to help return the opera house back to normality! Erik's eyes tore around the mess that was his stage, angrily searching out anyone that was stood around doing nothing, and soon his eyes met the appalling scene of a group of engineers stood idly by, smoking and chatting and making no motion to clear away some mess or to mend the scenery. When they saw their enraged employer looking at them in disbelief they scuttled away, suddenly deciding not to have their causal chat on the stage, and Erik was simply too stunned to yell after them. What had happened in the last three weeks when he had been bed ridden? What Neanderthal could possibly allow such a slip of the reigns of authority over his employees? And why wasn't anyone rehearsing for a performance?!

As if Erik's murderous thoughts had summoned him to the stage, a criminal making his way to the dock to await the trial, suddenly there were footsteps and the sound of someone's exasperated sigh.

"Erik! What on Earth are you doing?!" Nadir's outraged voice came sailing out onto the stage a good five seconds before the Persian arrived. Erik turned slowly to await the arrival of his brainless friend, cracking his knuckles in a menacing fashion, his yellow eyes glittering with malice. "You are on strict bed rest, you complete oaf! This could damage your health permanently!"

Erik fixed his gaze, evil and cold, right on the Persian. He was all set to bellow his reply and start firing the accusations at the old fool, demanding to know why on Earth he had allowed such a detrimental slip of authority and why he hadn't tried to deal with the situation which had clearly reached disastrous levels, but then his sharp eyes were drawn to something else. He honed in on it, narrowing his observant eyes as he took in what it was; a crumbled note held tightly in Nadir's fist.

"What is that?" he asked in a flat voice, gesturing to it, though he knew full well what it was.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? How can it be nothing, Khan?!"

"Because it is just that; nothing! Don't concern yourself with it, Erik. And don't change the subject."

"Hand it over. Now."

Erik did not wait for the Persian to comply with his demand; he stepped forward very purposefully and snatched the note from his fist, despite Nadir's yell of outrage or his pathetic struggle to snatch it back. The fact that Nadir had tried to hide it from him confirmed what it was, but still Erik was filled with a seething anger as he gazed down upon the words scratched onto that paper. It was a threat, of course; one the promised threats, signed with the initials O.G just to taunt him further. Why had no-one even thought to tell him about this development?! He wouldn't have known if he hadn't taken Nadir by surprise-!

Feeling like a madman all set to go off into a rampage, Erik read and re-read the meticulous handwriting, sucking in his breath as he took in what the threat detailed. Written in a perfectly polite- to the point that it was patronising- tone, it kindly informed him that should he attempt to stage any further performances of any kind, they would end in disaster. It also mentioned that if any attempt to entrap him was made, someone would suffer for it. Erik grimly noted that the threat did not warn against the idea of a duel, but he felt far too outraged by both the threat itself and the fact that nobody had informed him of its existence to gloat.

"So, Nadir, when were you planning on telling me about this?" he demanded in that same dull, flat, lethargic tone. Nadir did not meet his stare.

"In honesty, Erik, I planned to just oblige- to pretend that we had suffered some drastic fall in numbers, or that a great many employees had left, so that we would have to close and leave this horror filled place to go to Antoinette or Meg." He replied in a quiet voice, not denying his intentions, and not sounding ashamed of them either. "This constant worry; it's not good for either of us. We must simply make the situation as tolerable as we can and leave. We must have the intelligence to know when the fight is lost, Erik, else we could pay with our lives."

"THIS IS IN NO WAY TOLERABLE, KHAN!" Erik exploded, his voice projecting out to fill the auditorium perfectly, his face flushing bright red as all his bottled up annoyance and irritation and anger was unleashed on Nadir in that one insane explosion. "This man, this assassin, who plans to kill us...he isn't going to leave us alone if we leave London! Don't you see- his goal is to destroy us in all the possible ways before he kills us. Running away will do nothing to solve this problem. He will follow us, and we will lead him to our friends!"

"You don't know that for sure." Nadir replied half-heartedly.

Erik stared in utter disbelief at his friend, throwing his hands up as he laughed scornfully, exasperated and fuming with anger. He appreciated that Nadir was scared and worried and just fed up of constantly having to stress about the threat of a killer, haunting their every move and threatening all they did, like a storm cloud hanging over them, ever present. But could the old fool not see that such a foe could not be defeated by simply running away. The man was undoubtedly set on killing them, and he would follow them if he had to. He was probably listening to this very conversation!

"Khan, listen to what mindless drivel is tumbling thoughtlessly from your mouth! I think that given this sadists past actions, it is a guarantee that he will not be stopped by the childish act of fleeing." Erik snapped, watching and waiting for defeat to flicker in his friend's eyes, or to bloom across his face in the form of a sheepish blush, as it so often did. But Nadir only looked angry and tired; his head did not bow in embarrassment and his eyes remained steadfast and cold. "Well, think what you like, in the end it doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. I don't care if this imposter is an assassin or a florist; I refuse to be constantly dictated to and pushed around by a bully until I comply with his demands!"

"As do I."

Erik felt a bubble of smug joy, cracking his knuckles and preparing to launch into a speech in order to win the old fool around to agreeing with the duelling plan that he was still set upon. But when he looked keenly at the Persian, he saw no familiar defeat; his eyes were now glassy, his expression lifeless. The dull look on Nadir's face alarmed Erik to such an extent he had to voice his concern.

"Khan-"

"As you say, Erik, you refuse to be pushed around by a bully. And so do I." Nadir repeated firmly, his eyes still dull and his voice numb, without feeling. "I won't be staying here any longer. You can find another assistant for the office- perhaps that Marianne that you're so fond of these days? I don't care what you do- I'm leaving as soon as I am able."

"But- WHAT?!" Erik demanded as shock flared into anger, reaching out with two outstretched hands and clamping down on the Persian's shoulders, shaking him until his eyes rolled. He felt Nadir tense beneath his iron grip, and he heard from somewhere in the back of his frantic mind that he was probably hurting the man, but his fingers refused to cease their hold on Nadir. "What on Earth are you saying, you incomprehensible twit?! There is no need to be so worried- I will soon bring down this imposter bully and things will return to normal! You can't go flouncing off at the first hint of trouble, Khan, you are far better than that!"

Nadir looked at Erik with wide, sad eyes and shook his head slowly. Erik, not knowing what this meant or why his friend looked so sorrowful all of a sudden, felt his fingers relinquish their hold upon Nadir's shoulders and he slunk back a step or two, giving the Persian some space. He rolled his shoulders, wincing a little and scowling at the pain Erik's strong grip had bestowed. This made Erik realise that his arms were burning too, protesting at the strain of holding such a grip, and he was certain that his grimace of pain mirrored Nadir's.

"No, Erik, you have not understood. It's not the threat of the imposter that is making me want to leave." Nadir sounded incredibly sad, as if whatever he was about to say was the worst thing in the world. Erik found that he was leaning forward in morbid anticipation of whatever rubbish was bound to come tumbling from the old fools mouth, certain that whatever it was, he would be able to calm the worrier down and convince him to remain in London. "It's just that...I can't take it anymore. I can't stand this- _you_."

"What?"

The quietly spoken, mournful words of his lifelong friend hit Erik harder than he had hit the ground after tumbling from the walkways. His voice had faded down to a numb whisper, barely able to get the words out, barely able to voice his confusion and ashamed that the hurt cascading through him was clearly audible. His eyes frantically searched the Persian's lined face, desperate to find the hint of smile or the twinkle in his eyes that would indicate that he was joking, jesting, pretending to really mean such a thing... But he found no traces of jest on Nadir's troubled face, and the resulting feeling of abandon and hurt was excruciating.

Surely, he tried to tell himself as he forced his eyes to look away from Nadir's downcast expression, he cannot really mean such a thing? Could he? They had suffered so much together, struggling through hell and more, braving the difficult times together and rejoicing whenever things had turned out better than hoped. Though the earlier days of their time together had been filled with uncertainty, anger and Erik's inability to admit that the often aggravating Daroga was a friend like none other, their friendship was strong and their often brotherly care for one another unwavering- or so he had thought. Nadir had experienced so many of Erik's verbal onslaughts; a few physical ones too when times had been the epitome of depressing. But never once through the anger, the hatred or the tears had he ever threatened to leave; never.

Nadir had been the pillar; the constant in Erik's miserable, dark life that so often failed to make him want to live. He had picked him up again after each and every fall; never admitting defeat, even when things looked bleaker than this English weather. His fighting spirit had allowed Erik to build himself back up after each crushing blow; he would have surely died after Christine had fled from him in the lair, had Nadir not been there to force him to live. And now this pillar, this constant presence, this _friend_ wanted to leave him.

"Is this because of Marianne?! Because you're jealous, or that I didn't include you when I told her everything?! Because her presence is no different to when Meg aided us in Paris!" Erik threw his accusations wildly, the hurt saturating his voice. He sounded pathetic, of that he was well aware. Just like a child, upset and confused because things were not going their way.

"No, that has nothing to do with this Erik!" Nadir replied coldly, his voice icy as the cobbles in winter and as bitter as the north wind that so often seemed to whip down the dingy backstreets, merciless against the scorched red cheeks of every pedestrian. It was summer now, with lazy sunshine and gentle summer winds that sang rather than howled, but Nadir's voice was so cold that it broke through the summer warmth and pierced Erik's heart with ice. "I am at my wits end! I cannot continue living the way that I am currently suffering! I fear for our lives each and every hour, I tear about this chaotic place and fail to bring any kind of order, I spend endless hours sat at a desk, working slowly through piles and piles of paperwork that meaning nothing to me! And I would be happy enough, I would be glad to do such things, if I felt that I was in any way appreciated or even liked by my supposed companion. I enjoy the good times with you, Erik, but recently you have been subjecting me to the foulest tempers and have made me feel next to worthless! I am not a wall; I have feelings, and when I slave and put up with all the horrors of your opera house I had hoped that perhaps I would be promoted from my apparent purpose of being your verbal punch bag!"

Erik could not form a coherent sentence to respond. Each word that Nadir ranted and raved in that infuriated tone chipped away at the force holding him up, and he could feel the breaking point coming. When it did, his sanity was sure to shatter into a million pieces.

"But even that isn't the point, Erik. I have forgiven your foul ways before and have endured far worse, and I do forgive your ridiculous tempers and anger." Nadir sighed heavily, the anger wilting back to sadness and exhaustion. "The point is, that despite your hideous tempers and the way that you treat me as if I am the enemy often enough, I care about you and your well-being. I have always cared; when you kidnapped Christine and the realisation that fear would not turn to love finally dawned...I helped you, gladly, for I admired you. I saw the good man inside you as you cried, I saw your strength as you resisted returning to her or even forcibly taking her again and I felt so proud of you, after my shock, when I learned that you had reached a point where you were able to help her."

"But...what is making you leave, then?" Erik managed to croak out. He didn't want to speak, but his confusion made it impossible not to do so.

"Erik..." Nadir trailed off before he found the words and the enthusiasm to start again. "I saw the good in you and admired how strong you were then, but now this...this denial and refusal to acknowledge that you ever loved her...back when you were the Phantom terrorising the opera, you were undoubtedly cruel and wicked because you had suffered in your life, and it was almost understandable. But now...you are cruel in ways that tell me that cruelty is all you know! I- I despair of it, Erik! I see my emotional, musical, loving genius of a friend and loathe this cold, emotionless man that you have become!"

"Emotionless?!" Erik flared at Nadir's words, yelling the word out with such venom and contempt that he could almost taste it on his tongue; bitter, dark, rancid. "How can you even SAY such a thing to me?! Am I not filled with anger right now, as I argue here with you? Was I not hysterical with tears as I lay in agony, writhing on the floor? And was I not brimming with hope and joy as this opera house gradually built up around me; Antoinette even told me that there was fire burning in my eyes when she came to visit! I am as good as reborn!"

"But that is just it, Erik. You are not reborn- only changed, and in my opinion, not for the better." Nadir sounded ancient with sadness, as if he really were one of the ancients he loved to quote, whose wise words had been passed down through centuries. "Before, your love and adoration for genius, for music, for love itself and for that stupid girl Christine shone out of even your cruellest acts. It was so strong that it even made you the opposite of evil when you nearly killed me and Raoul de Chagny as you held Christine in your possession. And when you saved the wretch from her father-in-law, when you could not answer Meg Giry when she asked if you could ever love her, when you swore that Raoul de Chagny would die for laying one finger on Christine..._then_ you were good. But now... you may have built this opera house in order to help the poor and you may be trying to be a fair employer...it's the right thing to do, Erik, but there is no love in your actions."

"Love is a-"

"-lie." Nadir finished for him, but his tone was so abrupt that it was as good as rudely interrupting mid-sentence. "Yes, I know that you hold that opinion now. And to me, that fact that you, the man who held more love inside him than any other human, no longer believe in love is a sign that this is the end. Such a thing...when you were so full of love and passion, Erik, to say that you cannot believe in its existence is as good as dying. And I cannot remain here and watch this gradual decay any longer. You are too important to me, Erik. I cannot stay and watch- this is something that I cannot fix."

Erik was once again stunned into silence. When he tried to speak he felt as if he were about to choke, his throat closing up and tightening so that he had to gasp for air and force himself to take deep, dizzying breaths. But even if he had managed to choke the words out, it would have been pointless. For what words could possibly stand up against what Nadir had just said to him, in that hollow voice? And in ways, it was true; everything the Persian had noted and brought down against him was unfailingly and disastrously true. But Erik was unable to believe anything else; love had wrecked and ruined him, crushed him to the point of death and taunted him with the images and thoughts of that person who would remain forever locked in the prison of his shattered heart- how could he bring himself to think otherwise after everything that had happened?

"I'll write."

The softly spoken words were gentle, but still they hit him with the impact of a tonne of bricks, destroying both his composure and the friendship that had braved dizzying heights and deathly lows only to be obliterated by his own mentality. Erik watched as Nadir walked from the stage, leaving him stood alone on the cavernous expanse of emptiness, and he could not stop his knees from buckling. He barely felt the jolt of pain that gripped his body on the impact- he was numb.

A man without love, he thought faintly as he stared down at the dull wood of the stage, is as good as dead.

He hauled himself up and forced his legs to move, climbing the stair case at an agonisingly slow pace before beginning the horribly long journey through various corridors until he reached his bedroom. There, he threw himself face down onto the pillow. How odd, he thought distantly, now that Nadir is gone I am returning to bed and following orders.

Nadir. Gone. The words seemed to open up a void of vast blackness, an expanse of oblivious relief that would come with the sweet state of sleep, a chance to fall into the unconscious and to forget. Erik gladly fell into this void, waiting for sleep to come and take away the pain, not wanting to think about waking again. For with waking, came reality, and the reality that Nadir was gone would soon tear him apart.

Erik closed his eyes.


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Sorry that my updates are a bit random at the moment, things have been pretty hectic and so I'm trying to get one in per week at some point...hopefully things will calm down again soon! **

**Lovely reviewers, I must thank you all; a Guest, Magdeline, TMara, a Guest, Filhound, BiancaR, SadandConfused, Anna, MissFleck734, Haquikah and Helena. That was quite a sad chapter *looks tearful* and a huge sorry to anyone who got upset, but we are reaching the start of the climax now and- wait. I cannot give it away! Please trust me on this one :-). **

**Magdeline and Anna- All I can say is (without ruining my story) that we will catch up with them soon...very soon... I like calling Raoul a skunk. That is awesome. :-P**

**Helena- Thank you for the very kind review, I promise that we will catch up with Christine and the fop-chimp very soon. :-)**

**SadandConfused- I can't give away my ending because that would kind of ruin it, but I am too a hopeless romantic...does that help? :-)**

**And now, after all my babbling, onto chapter Thirty One!**

**Thirty One- The Curtain Falls, His Reign Will End!  
(Black Rose Opera House, London)**

Reality was, as expected, a painful and long suffering ordeal. There was no escape from it anymore, no place to run and cower in the warm darkness until someone came and rescued him. There never had been anyone to rescue him; not once had his Mother fought passionately for her son, not once had the gypsies defended their popular freak, not once had Christine thrown herself between her tutor and the vicious mob of humanity. Nadir had tried, with encouraging words and admirable determination, but even he had given up. Now it was Erik, only Erik, and though he lived and worked in a bustling opera house, full of life and people, he had never felt so isolated, so abandoned, so _alone_ in all his life.

Days started, days ended. Time itself seemed devoid of meaning, running dry and serving only to taunt him when he did raise his tired eyes to look at the clock, or the calendar. The proud grandfather clock sneered down at him and the dates merely stared back at him, willing him to rip the calendar into shreds. He did, after a month, ripping and tearing until the paper was nothing but jagged confetti, blowing out of the barely opened window as Erik fell to his knees before the fireplace and sobbed for all he had become and the desolate void of his future that was gaping open before his streaming eyes. When each day felt like a drawn out, exhausting year, the uncertain expanse of empty future seemed a horror filled eternity. He was out of bed now, fast healing and able to walk around with only slight twinges and aches when certain muscles were pulled, but that pain seemed irrelevant when faced with that empty void of the future.

As the days did drag on, slowly extinguishing the energy and determination throughout the Black Rose- for still no new plays or operas had been scheduled- autumns claws began to drag out the last shred of summer, casting a wet, gloomy shadow over London. Soon piles of fallen leaves, blown in from goodness knows where, began to collect in the already damp streets, rotting and leaving the infernal stench hovering like thick fog in the air. The days were shorter, the night commanding everything with its unbreakable grip, and as these days of damp and cold progressed, Erik felt his sanity start to slip. It was a peculiar sensation at first, as if he could feel his brain slowly peeling away from the inside of his skull, but soon this feeling of wonder disintegrated. He was left feeling shaky and useless, disturbed by the paranoia that plagued him and the restless behaviour he had since adopted.

Every night he would fail to get to sleep, and so he would take to the endless maze of corridors, lamp in trembling hand, walking slowly yet surely through every part of the building, occasionally lifting the lamp to a darkened corner as he gave a great cry of anger, expecting someone to be lurking in the shadows. But these midnight treks simply exhausted him; never did he find his desired victim, the assassin, hiding in a shadow, ready to fight. Never did a voice whisper taunts to him from the walkways; never did anyone grab him from behind and push him underfoot.

"Come out, you coward!" he screamed one empty night, projecting his hysterical voice right up to the furthest row of seating, the highest walkway above the stage. He could almost feel the vibrations his bellow had left in its wake, shimmering in the air, and he stood with his lamp held high, a signal to this fiend. "Come out, you snivelling wretch, you conniving villain, you evil bastard! Come out and fight the wrath of the true Opera Ghost; the beast, the evil monster, the Phantom!"

But that night's midnight wanderings had proved to be as futile as the times he crept about as silent as a mouse, leaving him so angry that the lamp had gone crashing to the floor in a small explosion of sound, scattering glass and quickly extinguishing flame in one sudden surge as it impacted with the floor.

"I am mad." He whispered to himself, playing with the broken shards that did not glitter in the gloomy darkness and accidently cutting himself, not caring as the blood beaded and trickled down his fingers, staining them with the sinister red. He barely even felt the sharp pain; nothing could hope to pierce the cloud of depression that was shrouding him. Its transparent arms were wrapped tight around him, holding him together yet at the same time stopping him from breathing. "Erik is mad. Erik is better off dead than mad."

When he heard that he had slipped into the third person again he began to cry, miserable tears not dissimilar to those he had sobbed out at Christine's feet in his lair, when he had screamed at her for unmasking him and seen how she had been too scared to say a thing, that wordless action of holding out his wretched mask in her pale, trembling hand. Any milestone he had reached regarding his mental health was crumbling, disintegrating, as if such a thing had never existed in the first place.

As Erik was slowly seeping lower and lower into the pit of his own sadness, the opera house employees decided that they could not let the Black Rose of London wither and die; it deserved better treatment than that, and they owed their fair and kind employer for giving them so much in these hard times where so little was available. Touched by the plight of their employer- for they all thought that he must be suffering from some wasting illness- and born of the mean streets, they regarded the challenge with hungry eyes, throwing themselves into the never-ending task of managing such a place with astounding alacrity that would have put any other working force to shame. They pestered one another to keep on top of jobs; cleaning, maintenance, sewing, and soon they had reached such a state of self confidence that no-one thought it was madness to try and organise a performance themselves.

Though all employees of the opera house, and having participated in several plays and operas since their employment, no-one truly knew what they must do first in the tricky business of preparing and staging a show. It would have to be a play, they all decided, with the musical genius now constantly moping in his rooms, they had no other choice. Erik watched with dull, lifeless eyes as his employees went from loud, raucous arguments to professional rehearsals, seeing them flourish before his very eyes. Marianne seemed to have taken charge of the performers, with Daniel providing much of the slapstick comedy, and Violet was even co-operating without using her fists- though her coarse language and vile curses still made her an unpleasant person to work with. The orchestra were being led by the spineless conductor for once, preparing a few pieces to entertain the audience with during the intervals, and for the first time in months Erik felt the ghost of a smile tease at his face as he heard a note perfect rendition of the chosen pieces as he stood in the wings, watching. He worried that by staging this play, his employees would be putting themselves at risk, for the assassin had detailed in his threat that all shows would end in disaster, but he didn't have it in his heart to stop them. They seemed so full of life.

There had been whispered worries between the employees since Erik's depression, or 'illness' as they knew of it, had taken hold, turning him into a recluse who no longer composed or organised anything within the opera house, and many found themselves worried that such a thing would cause the successes of the Black Rose to plummet into failure, forcing them to close. But when the play was announced as a comedic collection of hilarious sketches and acts, interest soared and the auditorium was fully booked for weeks. Tasting the highs of self made success, the employees began to attempt to add song and dance; recycling duets and chorus pieces from other performances, and this delighted the audiences even more.

Erik continued to watch, sat in his office and listening to the faint strains of melody or bursts of applause, or sometimes standing up in the walkways and gazing down upon his employees like some ethereal being, seeing them lighting up the stage he had built for them. They were surging forwards with his dream, propelling the Black Rose Opera House along with their dizzyingly high spirits, but Erik found himself separated from it all, abandoned in the dusty trail, left behind as they continued forwards.

But the worrying thing was that he did not feel any kind of motivation, no urge to leap up and snap himself out of this trance. Feeling left behind and excluded from his own creation and idea did not fill him with the burning desire to leap back into the fray of opera house life and management; he felt nothing. It was as if Nadir's little leaving testimony had shattered the dream he had nursed and given life to; his fresh start had been tarnished and tainted by reality. Again.

He began to find that music was failing him; his compositions were so sad they made him weep and ruin the scores, leaving them a soggy, salty mess, and the music no longer sealed up the wounds and let him feel better again. He would sit at the piano for hours on end, at night when he was plagued by horrific nightmares that refused to grant him any shred of sleep, trying and trying to coax some form of melody from the instrument and ending up so angry that he nearly broke the strings as he crashed down upon the notes. Erik despaired of it; why was music failing him when he needed it most? It had always patched him up before; it had always been that one thing in life that he had never given up on, for it had never let him down. Not once.

When Nadir wrote to him as promised, the old familiar scrawl of his friend's messy writing was salt to the wound, and he read the little letter with narrowed eyes. Nadir said, in less than jovial tones, that he was currently residing in Paris, with the intent to travel to Persia when spring came. He said, in words that felt as cold as ice, that he wished Erik the best. The scent of Arabian perfumes and the heady aroma of herbs and spices wafted up from the paper and into Erik's nose, clearing his head and giving him the energy to get up and hurl the little note into the flickering flames of his fire. He watched the orange tendrils lick at the paper, turning it black. The last words he could read, before the whole thing caught, were the words he had signed at the end; 'Your friend, Nadir'. Erik watched them burn.

On the stage, amid a hectic rehearsal that saw Daniel crooning up the endless empty rows of seating and causing much laughter from those standing around watching, Connie caught sight of Marianne hovering in the wings and began to make her way over to her, pushing a little when people were too busy watching Daniel's singing to notice that she was trying to get through. Eventually, after elbowing several and being shoved a little in return for all her efforts, she made it out alive and hurried towards her friend, who seemed to be gazing up into the walkways with a slight frown on her usually delicate features. Connie touched her arm, wrenching Marianne from whatever daydream she had been lost in with a little jump of surprise.

"Can I talk to you, Marianne?" she asked in a whisper, conscious of a few people who had looked away from Daniel's rehearsal to glare at her for interrupting. She stared right back, undaunted, as if challenging them to come over to her and tell her to be quiet. No one did. "It's just that...well, I suppose I'm worried."

"Worried?" the brunette asked, her gentle eyes concerned. Connie noticed lines etched into the girl's face, lines that had not been there before, and she instantly knew that Marianne was stressing over the exact same things as her.

"Yes, I am worried about Sir. And what will become of all of us...of the Black Rose." She replied, still in hushed tones. Marianne's eyes instantly pooled with understanding, and she led Connie a little further into the wings, so that they might talk without disturbing anyone further. "We all know that he's ill, weak still after that fall he had, I expect. But he isn't eating, Marianne, and I know as well as you that he won't see a doctor. He's the soul behind this opera house, and if he continues to remain a recluse, we will crumble!"

Marianne bit her lip, accidently cutting into the soft flesh and drawing blood. She winced a little as it stung, her tongue meeting the disgusting iron tang, and she fidgeted a little on the spot. It was true that she knew more than anyone else in this opera house did regarding their employee, but that didn't mean that she understood his sudden lapse in interest. He seemed depressed and didn't want to talk whenever she enquired; in truth she had never seen a man so downcast. It worried her, for they all relied upon him in their own way, and she knew that her employer was quite alone in this world. It wasn't right that he should be suffering, but she didn't know what to do, or how to reply to Connie's words for that matter.

"He is a troubled man, Connie. He used to smile and talk and play the piano until the early hours, and it is true that he no longer does this." She paused, assessing Connie's worried frown. "But I think that he is simply under a cloud; something will happen, something that will draw him out from under that cloud, and when that does happen he will be better than before."

"But in the meantime?"

"He is hurting Connie. Of that, I am most certain."

The fiery haired girl looked at Marianne, tears suddenly sparkling in the corner of her jade green eyes, like little gems trapped there. She sniffed and wiped them away, trying to stick her chin up again, but Marianne knew that they were all worried, for their employers wellbeing and, selfishly perhaps, for their own gain. For this employment was a good, fair one; none of them would wish to return to the old days of little money and lack of respect.

"Sorry, I'm being an idiot." Connie sniffed again, sounding perkier. "But Marianne...you don't think that we'll lose our jobs, do you? Suppose the boss decides to pack it all in, sell up perhaps? He might want to go back home, wherever that is. I don't think I could go back to my old life now- the work nearly killed me."

"Look, we're managing alright on our own, aren't we?" Marianne tried to cheer the usually bubbly girl up, forcing a smile onto her face and stopping herself from voicing her own worries regarding this subject, which would only confuse the message she was trying to get across. "We're loved by London, Connie. Sir has given us that. So even if he were to give it up- which I highly doubt- we would not be affected. We've just got to continue with what we're doing and wait for him to come out from under this cloud."

Suddenly, as if moved by the same thought, both girls looked up at the ceiling, as if they could see their troubled employer pacing around his small office, his face expressionless with the numbing ache of abandon. They soon forced themselves to tear their eyes away from the ceiling and instead turn to watch the dancers, dressed like birds of paradise as they warmed up and began to jump lithely around the small section of stage, Violet bellowing at them as she too hopped around.

As they began to leap and twirl faster and faster, a whirlwind of vibrant colours, Erik finally stopped pacing and made his way to the desk in the far corner of the now messy office, grimacing at the piles of paperwork littered all over. It was a complete mess; his lack of enthusiasm having had disastrous effects on his organisation skills, leaving him now with mountainous piles of documents and letters that screamed of urgency. It was a long and arduous task that he loathed with a passion, but it was likely to kill some time and keep his brain semi-focused on something less depressing, so with a lethargic attitude he took a seat at the minor disaster area that formed his desk and prepared to sift through the rubbish.

The piles and piles of various bills and letters and legal rubbish taunted him with the effort they would take, and he regretted leaving them all till now, for he was bound to spend at least a day sat here sorting through. The urge to simply toss them all into the glowing hot coals of the fire was so great that Erik found himself nearly doing so, until reason came crashing back down upon him and forced him to keep his eyes firmly within the area of the desk, ignoring the inviting crackle of the gorgeously warm fire.

"Curse this." He muttered as he ripped opened the first envelope, slipping the letter out and reading it with an expression of contempt on his face before he threw it with relish into the orange tendrils. He began to pick up the pace, ripping and reading and throwing into the fire with growing enthusiasm, enjoying the spit and crackle of the fire as it met the fuel of rubbish and pointless letters sent to him by hordes of idiots. He was quite set into this delightful routine, even enjoying it, when suddenly his hands met a little note folded simply in half, tiny in comparison to the other mail, and he felt his heart freeze.

It was the same paper as the threatening note which he had snatched from Nadir.

Erik did not delay. Taking a deep breath, he flipped it open with one quick movement of his long, slender fingers and his eyes quickly slid over the carefully written words, drinking them in and their message. Anger rushed through his veins as the message sunk in, the words taunting and evil, as if radiating with it.

'_You are scared, aren't you? Scared that I will kill you? To end your miserable life would be a blessing, not the punishment that you so deserve. You have tainted so many, ruined so many. And now I am going to ruin whom you hold dear. O.G.'_

Erik went from angry to blind panic in a second. Ruin someone he held dear? But who?! Who was this madman intending to take from him?! An employee, perhaps? Antoinette? Henri? Meg? _Christine?!_

Worked into a frenzy, more from his own imagination than the actual words of his enemy, Erik began to frantically leaf through the piles of letters, certain that such a big headed and cocky individual would delight in telling Erik exactly what he intended to do, to make him leap through some hoops, meddle with him before he delivered the final, shattering blow. He rifled through, his eyes scanning over every word, again and again in case he missed some vital sign that would ruin everything, and in the end his hands came across a proper envelope, thin and plain to look at, but holding within it the power to change everything. It would be laughable, that such an inconsequential looking thing could destroy everything he knew, but Erik was in no laughing mood.

He postmark was from France, the handwriting detailing the address the same as that in the threatening note, and Erik could feel the bitter malevolence as he held the little paper envelope in his grip, wanting to crush it and not play the assassins game. But the threat this time was real and had the potential to destroy not only him, but someone else, someone entirely innocent and good. Heart in his mouth, and pulsating in a nauseating fashion, Erik opened the letter.

'_Dearest Phantom, Opera Ghost, hideous beat from hell...I don't know what you would prefer. These formalities mean little to nothing in the grand scheme of things, and usually I would not be so kind as to offer you this chance, but you are no use in England, alive or dead. If you ever want to see your little Persian friend again, I suggest that you leave England for Paris as soon as you are able. Once there, go to the Populaire. Sing, you tainted Angel of Music, sing for a full house. Do so, and then await instruction. Think of this as that pathetic duel you were intending to challenge me to. I will not wait much longer, Phantom of the Opera. Be warned.'_

And that was it. The final round decided, the end in sight.

The fire crackled and spat angrily, an ember exploding from the fiery pit and falling onto the dark tiles of the hearth, glowing for a second before dimming down into darkness. Outside a light rain shower had come to London; the sound of the fine droplets hitting the glass of the window sounded dainty and gentle, like fairy feet dancing. There was nothing, nothing at all in that warm, quiet room to distract Erik's thoughts and attention from the letter and its hideous content.

Left feeling helpless and not knowing quite what to do, he reached out with one hand for a bottle of alcohol, unscrewing it and swigging the scorching liquid before he remembered that he did not like alcohol; he spat and gagged and choked, but took another almighty gulp for the sheer hell of it. The burn made his eyes water, streaking down his face like tears, but oddly Erik felt the furthest from hysterical he had in a long time. It was as if the reality of such a threat, the fact that Nadir's life depended on his actions, had at last broken through the self-piteous depression which had been smothering him these last few months, clearing the air and opening his eyes to the truth and last. He stood up and pushed both notes absentmindedly into his pocket, not caring if they got torn or crushed in his lack of concentration, already thinking the situation through.

So the assassin was intending to play the last move, to bring this worrying business to an end at last, presumably hoping to kill him. The letter had mentioned the duel; Erik was glad of that, knowing that now he was sane again- or at least in this moment- he had a fair chance of winning such a fight, hopefully resulting in the sadistic bastard's death. But there was one problem- the detail about singing.

Erik was no fool, and the reasoning behind such an odd request, or rather demand, was obvious to him in this new sharp state of mind; the assassin hoped that he would sing, be recognised by the audience, cause a mob and then be killed by the hordes of screaming, angry people, or even the police. It would save the imposter a job, but he could still to duel him if the mob did not manage to kill him. Feeling strangely calm when faced with the eventuality of his own death, Erik cracked a smile as he crossed the room in a few long strides to find some paper. At least someone would be happy, whether he or the assassin won; Monsieur Jean Thiland had been begging him, the mysterious composer, to perform ever since the book had earned the man a colossal sum of money. The thought of the shrewd man was enough to distract the more sensible part of Erik's mind, which was a little anxious, instead allowing him to find grim humour amid the mess.

Erik found a pile of unused paper and settled down to write several letters, aware that should he live or indeed die, he had friends who would care to know what was occurring in his turbulent life. With the morbid sensation of preparing to die battling with the anxiety for Nadir's welfare within him, he wrote the letters to Antoinette, Meg and his employees with difficulty; stopping suddenly to re-read his letter and deciding it was the work of a raving loon, so scrunching up the paper and starting again.

Erik had never truly given thought to death before, or rather what would occur afterwards. Who would cry, who would cheer, and who would suddenly realise ten years afterwards that the composer hadn't released new material for some time... he laughed, not knowing why. At the present, he was not scared of death, but living alone and unhappy for the rest of his days. At least, by some warped twist of fate, he had known happiness now, even if it felt so far in the past.

_The next morning..._

Marianne awoke to find weak autumn sunlight fighting through her window, igniting the enthusiasm that had been dormant for so long within her and granting her with the energy to leap up and out of bed at seven, plans for the day ahead already forming in her mind. The early September mornings were a delight; the air crisp, the wind cold enough to be sharp and pleasant but not enough to freeze her to the bone and soon she was dressed and dashing down the stairs, all set to run the errands she had thought of yesterday.

There was material to buy, to make costumes for the new performances they had planned, and she and Connie had talked and decided to enquire within the medical profession as to what could be done to ease someone out of lingering depression.

She was about to set off when she remembered that she needed the details for the costume material; written on a little scrap of paper and left messily in the dressing rooms, so she turned round and hurried along, hoping to find the rooms just as she left them last night, with the scrap of paper in place.

Luckily it was where she had left it, and she grabbed it with a smile as she considered her good luck. But then, as she turned to hurry off out again, her eyes caught sight of two envelopes lying on the dressing table, one large and one small, both with her name written on. Feeling curiosity bubble under her skin, and wondering if they might be love letters from Daniel- she felt her cheeks glow pink and her heart speed up just to think it in a girlish fantasy- she gently picked them up, deciding to open the smaller one first. With all the eager excitement of a child on Christmas morning, she ripped it open and pulled the letter out, her eyes hungrily reading the neat handwriting. She felt her jaw drop, and she had to pull the chair out and sit heavily down.

'_Dear Marianne,_

_I have told you enough of my past for you to know full well that I am a wanted man on many counts- you will know, of course, from my time at the Opera Populaire alone I caused plenty of mishaps that have created ill feeling regarding me. You know of the imposter too- his motives I am unsure of, or who he works for- but it will not surprise you to hear that he has at last decided to act. It seems that he thinks he can hurt one of my friends instead of me this time, and I am not about to allow this._

_It will seem sudden- I was shocked myself- but now as you read this I am on my way to France, to Paris, and it is unlikely that I will ever return. The truth is that you and the others I have employed to work for me at this opera house are part of a stage in my life that I am proud of, and though I have to leave now due to sinister things occurring, nothing can detract from the joy and solace I have found working with you all. I know that you, and that others, will continue to flourish and shine without me, as you have proved that you can organise things for yourself as of late- you are all excellent._

_From these melancholy words, I am delighted to turn to happier things in promoting yourself and anyone else you should choose to managerial positions in the Black Rose Opera House. In simpler terms, I am giving her to you. Do as you wish with her- sell her, abandon her or coax her back into the success and glory she was originally, before I brought all my woes crashing down on the happy atmosphere you all created. I trust that you will know what to do._

_The legal nonsense for this is in the other envelope, with all the funding you could possibly need. The Black Rose does generally make more than enough money from ticket sales alone, not to mention my book publishing fortune; half of this money will always come directly to the Black Rose. Should you continue to nurse her and allow her to thrive; you will all be very wealthy._

_This is a little cold of me, writing such an important letter and leaving without a word of goodbye, but I had no other choice. If you do wish to contact me you can do so through three people; Nadir Khan, Antoinette Giry and Meg Barreau, whose addresses are at the bottom of this long-winded letter. I can do little else than thank you all for what you have done for me and to wish you the best for the future, which I know will hold great things for you all._

_Erik.'_

Marianne hastily wiped the tears which had collected and spilled onto her cheeks away with the back of her hand, turning frantically to grab the other envelope. When she ripped it open and the contents spilled out into her lap, she could do little else than sob as she saw the pile of legal documents and bank notes, just as he had told her there would be. So it was fact- their employer, the man who had given them the chance to live a decent life at last, was gone forever from them. She leapt up, still clutching the envelopes and all they held in her grip, running at full speed out of the room and heading for the dormitories, already calling for everyone to wake up a once.

She hoped, as she ran, with all her might that the kind, loving genius of a man who had written that letter would be alright; he was honestly the best human being she had ever met. And she had thought that long before he had given her a fortune.

_Somewhere in Paris..._

"So you sent the letter to him, at his opera house in London? Correct?"

"Yes, I did. He should have found it by now- he will know what we have done and how he must resolve it."

"And you think that he will come?"

"I am certain, Monsieur. The information you were given leaves me in no doubt. He will come."

"And we will be ready for him."

"We will."


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux. I also do not own any of the songs from POTO- the song featured in the chapter is 'No One Would Listen'. Not mine (unfortunately). **

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Or should I say bonjour, as Erik has now left England (goodbye Erik *waves mournfully*) to return to France? **

**Once again I am thrilled with all the lovely reviews that people have left, so thank you to; BiancaR, icanhearthedrums, Helena, TMara and Kitkat. I once again maintain my promise that soon we will meet up with a certain skunk and his poor wife...**

**So, without any further babble, I pass you over to Erik, back in Paris...**

**Thirty Two- This Kingdom Where All Must Pay Homage To Music  
(Paris)**

The hustle and bustle of another day in Paris washed through the streets without a second thought, Parisians coming and going as they went about the trivial matters of their daily business, filling the cobbled streets with chatter, laughter and life. The grey, melancholy buildings glared down on the hectic rush of the streets, disapproving old men with sour faces rather than dull houses. The homely aroma of bread and other delicacies snuck through the open door of the nearest boulangerie, greeting the noses of passers-by and causing a small smile to appear quite suddenly on their faces.

The raucous shouting of market stall sellers competing filled the air, accompanied by the clatter of horses, the creak of carriages, the laughter of playing children and the occasional curse as a thief managed to dart away with some stolen produce, quick as a hare as they disappeared into a back alley. The smells, the sights, the feeling of content as he crossed down the familiar streets...Erik could not help but relax. The city was a comfort; a place he knew the secrets and stories, a place he could blend into a crowd, a place he didn't need to think and fret and worry every second. The language sounded odd to his English attuned ears, but as soon as he heard the first venomous curse of a loud horse cab driver, in French, Erik knew that he was truly home.

England had been interesting and a welcome escape from horror filled events, but as any Frenchman would agree, nothing could compete with Paris; it was unique. The pleasure of being in Paris, lost amid the surge of people as they hurried about with their everyday, humdrum lives, somehow managed to detract from the upcoming challenge that Erik knew he would have to suffer through. He had already been to the Populaire yesterday; to deliver a note to Monsieur Thiland and to organise a meeting with the man. It was this meeting that brought him to the streets during this hour of madness, and even the delights of Paris could not stop the cold sweat that trickled down Erik's spine as he considered the fact that he would have to go into the Populaire again. He had only just managed to compose himself yesterday, ignoring the surroundings and ploughing straight to the nearest employee, leaving the flustered boy with his request and then dashing straight out again, tail between his legs. He was a coward to fear going back; he was going to have to sing on the stage, after all, and if he could endure such a fearsome task then he ought to be able to conduct himself in a civilised manner inside the foyer. But it was no use; he merely had to wipe the sheen of sweat from the exposed half of his bone white face and force himself onwards.

The demands of the letter, penned by the assassin in that derogatory tone, played through Erik's mind again and again, a morbid mantra that he could not physically force to stop. He had no doubt that Monsieur Thiland would accept his offer to play at the Populaire; Thiland was a shrewd economical genius in the music publication industry, and the offer of a free performance from the otherwise elusive Monsieur Compositeur would be equivalent to a gift from the God's. The repertoire was proving a little difficult to decide upon, but Erik knew that although Thiland would try to arrange to have the performance as soon as humanly possible, it wouldn't be tonight. He would have time to think and practise and make his decisions.

No, the true worry that plagued him as he strode purposefully onwards through the surprisingly warm autumn morning was the idea of what might happen during the performance. What if the assassin dangled Nadir on a rope as he had done with a stage hand at the Black Rose? What if he killed him onstage? And- worse- what if the audience recognised him as the Opera Ghost and formed an angry mob to attack and kill him, as they had that dreadful night that felt so long ago now? As if triggered by his gloomy musings, the flesh coloured mask began to rub like hellfire, sandpaper on delicate skin. He wanted to rip the damned thing from his face and trample it underfoot for all the agony and bother it had caused him, but he forced his hands to remain resolutely at his side.

As he crossed another street, passing market stalls that spilled colourful produce onto the streets, he felt another pang for this city. As he looked sadly at the Seine, as full of live as the Parisians themselves, he wondered why he was such a glutton for punishment. Paris had been the scene for so many disasters in his life- the hideous events of the Opera Ghost, breaking Meg's heart, having Christine tell him that she still chose her abusive chimp over him- and yet it still felt as if it were home. But then Nadir had always said that Paris was the only city for a man as infected by music and darkness as he; everywhere he looked the buildings were gothic, the city was grey, and the kingdom of music itself the great Opera Populaire was nestled comfortably amongst this grey, gothic, musical paradise. Perhaps Paris was like a drug to his pitiful existence; everything he craved yet somehow always causing disaster for him.

As Erik turned down an unpleasant smelling alleyway and came out onto another street which was emptied of anyone save himself, his eyes met something that reminded him of another bad thing. He regarded Antoinette's house with a half mad stare, aching both to go up and knock and to flee in case she looked out the window and caught sight of him. His heart felt heavy as he took a few reluctant steps, knowing precisely what would happen should he go and greet her. She would tell him not to be stupid; that his plan was the work of a lunatic and that he should contact the police instead of jumping through hoops and trying to outsmart someone who clearly had the upper hand. But there was something else- the bitter, dull burn of guilt and embarrassment as he recalled how proud she had been on visiting him in London. Antoinette was like a sister to him; he valued her opinion and friendship as if it were the rarest gem in the world. He could not bear to tell such an important woman that he had driven Nadir away with his own denial, or that he had ruined everything she had praised in London with his own depression again.

Perhaps, in his dazed stumble back along the main streets of Paris to the Opera Populaire, if Erik had been a little more alert he might have noticed the gossiping crowd huddled around a paper salesman who was announcing the big news of the moment. If Erik had paid any attention to his surroundings and thus the raucous shout of the salesman, he would have been aware that the latest Paris scandal was being called 'the de Chagny shame'.

But he was too het up to hear the gossip or the salesman, instead watching the horses as they thundered past him, lumbering carriages in tow, splashing in puddles of collected rainwater and soggy autumn leaves that littered the place. He meandered along without a care in the world- aside the threat of impending death and exposure to a rabid mob as the notoriously hated Phantom, of course.

When at last the majestic, palatial and yet somehow not gaudy Opera Populaire loomed into view, Erik felt a sharp tugging sensation on his heart, as if the opera were a magnet and he the insignificant little iron filing being seduced in, unable to stop himself. But as he shuffled through the doors, his feet moving on their own despite the screams of protests that were currently echoing through his mind, Erik happened to glance at the huge clock that sat comfortably inside the Populaire foyer. He still had half an hour until his scheduled meeting. Relieved, he turned and fled the foyer, dashing back out into the crisp autumnal air, breathing deeply to control the panic that had bubbled up inside him from simply standing in the dratted place again. He walked a few steps, unsure of how to occupy this expanse of time without working himself into another frenzy, and then it struck him. What had he fantasised about in that plain and meaningless bedroom at the Black Rose? What had he craved as he lay in great pain, confined to his bed? He had desired the gothic ambiance of his lair, the sense of being submerged in beauty and darkness, the kingdom of music and night.

Antoinette had given him anything salvaged from the lair, telling him that it had been utterly wrecked. The unspoken warning not to go back there had been poignant in her words, and until now he had not desired to return to that place only to see everything he had made and cared for destroyed. But now he felt as if to do such a thing would cure him of this panic; as if the lair would in fact be as he had left it, waiting for him to fill it with music, and before he knew it he was hurrying down the side alley of the Opera Populaire, knowing that he would be able to find the hidden side entrance without a problem.

Dizzy with the need to be back in that place where he understood everything and desperate to escape this madness, he soon found the hidden entrance and went straight inside, not caring to savour it or wait until he felt ready. He dashed into the darkness at such speed that he nearly fell flat on his face, gathering speed as he stumbled down the narrow spiral staircase, the musty damp smell hitting him as if it were a wall, wrinkling his nose in minor disgust. Soon he recognised that he was back in the vault behind his mirror, the floor laden with shards of the shattered mirror and a few items of destroyed furniture. He heard the sinister crunch under his feet as he crushed the shards to glittering dust, pretty yet lethal and able to cut. Swallowing hard and ignoring the pound of his heart or the lump stuck in his dry throat, Erik gingerly opened the door and came out with a drape obstructing him. He batted it out of the way, choking a little at the dust it gave off, and then his eyes met the horror Antoinette had warned him about.

Although she had described the situation to him, told him that his lair had been utterly ruined, Erik had clung on to some stubborn image that it would be minor damage; perhaps a few ripped drapes, a piece of overturned furniture. This scene laid out before his stricken eyes spoke of carnage and complete chaos and he could hardly bear to look. That pile of almost unidentifiable rubbish in the far corner was the remains of his once mighty organ. The glittering lake was now a murky, rubbish littered dump. There was no sign of the majority of the curtains and drapes and various other fabrics- obviously the mob had decided that they liked his taste in decor and taken them for themselves- and Erik could no longer tell which pieces of rubbish and scrap had formed items of furniture. He had laboured for hours over some of those pieces; one table in particular had been his pride and joy. Now all that remained were charred lumps and piles of scrap.

For some unexplainable reason, Erik's original horror and fury melted away as he sat down on the floor by the edge of the lake, looking around him at the ruined mess left behind by the mob of all those years ago, who had pillaged and burned with all the ferocity they had accused him of holding. Seeing this place, a place that had held such horror as well as a sense of home, in such a state showed him that things had changed, for the better. No longer did he live in shadow, forbidden from anywhere but the murky cellars of humanity, condemned to spend eternity trapped in the very place he had suffered the worst night of his life. In a way that he did not truly understand, the ruin of the lair was a mark that he was no longer the man who had tried to kill a woman's lover before her very eyes, threatening them all with death by explosion unless she agreed to marry him. Yes, this gothic lair had been the first real home he had lived in and he had found solace amongst the water and the candelabras, but he now lived a life on the surface and could sustain comfort from normal, human things. He had progressed.

Erik got up, slowly moving across the paper littered floor, looking down in wonder at the smashed candelabras and the lumps of candle wax spread like a white rash over the darkness. He found, and managed to laugh at himself as he did, burnt remnants of his models and drawings, seeing Don Juan Triumphant, Il Muto, a gypsy camp, a little boy huddled in a dark corner, alone... He picked up that drawing and examined it, looking at the rough strokes and the distinctly anguished face of the child, knowing that the child was him and that he had drawn it to escape such feelings...before he could think of anything else, Erik tore it into confetti which floated and formed a layer atop of the still water of the lake.

Nadir had been the only real visitor to this place of night, with Antoinette far too busy in the land of the living to pay visits. But on those days, Nadir and Erik had simply argued and accused one another of awful things, Nadir berating him for his lack of conscience and morals, whilst Erik had bellowed at the meddling Persian to go back to Persia and leave him be. But he never did stop coming; always bringing food, new score sheets, ink, material. All he had ever asked in return was to hear a song, composed by Erik, and Erik had always obliged. The music had never been happy; always gloomy, dark and heavy, often disturbing too, but Nadir had never found fault in the pieces, simply smiling, thanking him and leaving. What he wouldn't give to have Nadir suddenly come charging in right now.

He noticed something lying on the floor behind a pile of broken candelabrum, a dishevelled mass of sodden score sheets that Antoinette and Meg had clearly not noticed when they had rescued everything else worth saving, and Erik lowered himself back onto the dirty floor to search through the mass of dripping sheets. Most of it was too wet to read, disintegrating in his gentle hands, but sandwiched in the middle of the substantial pile were a few legible pieces. On closer inspection Erik recognised it as a song he had long since forgotten about, a little whim of a song that he had barely credited but now remembered without fault. It had been one of the few pieces he had written purely based upon his emotions at the time, not trying to add many different instruments to the score or to make it a masterpiece. It was for piano and voice only, a simple tune really, but somehow it held more meaning than many of his other, better pieces.

He had written it on a night that he would never be able to forget, one of the few nights in his existence where he had been elevated from his usual place in the dark and suddenly filled with such hope and light. That night, that wonderful night, was the night in which he had first come across little Christine Daae, sobbing for her father in the chapel. He had heard her, standing in one of his hidden corridors that happened to be behind the chapel, and he had heard her tears and felt instantly sorry for the child. He had still been fairly young then, the memories of his own painful childhood fresh in his mind, and he had seen something of himself in the distraught child as he stood and listened to her prayers. When he heard the girl whisper about the Angel of Music, who was meant to protect and teach her, Erik had sung out to her before he had really thought through the consequences. But the elation in her voice and the smile on her face (for he had looked through a grating and seen her) had filled him with such wonder- the joy that he, Erik the monster, could actually bring a smile to a child's face- that he had continued with the Angel of Music act rather happily.

That night had been the first time he had felt like a good man. He had seen a sad child and made her happy again, and the fact that he could do such a thing had sent him rocketing up to the heights of joy. It had filled him with the hope that not all was lost; that he might be able to salvage a life from the ruined loose ends he had been given. Of course he had not known then that the little girl would, after many years, flourish into a beautiful young woman who would steal his heart and trample it. She had just been a little girl to him then, a little friend, a person in need of saving just as he had been.

The song was a simple tune, emotional yet not like his usual pieces, and as his eyes scrutinised the page of notation he once again noted that it was not a work of genius. But it was a collection of all the feelings he had experienced that night, of how he had finally tasted hope and the hints of a better life. He hummed the tune under his breath as he followed the notes, the words swimming before his eyes.

'No one would listen,  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears.

Shamed into solitude,  
Shunned by the multitude,  
I learned to listen  
In my dark, my heart heard music.

I longed to teach the world,  
Rise up and reach the world,  
No one would listen  
I alone could hear the music

Then at last, a voice in the gloom  
Seemed to cry "I hear you;  
I hear your fears,  
Your torment and your tears."

She saw my loneliness,  
Shared in my emptiness,  
No one would listen,  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears

No one would listen,  
No one but her  
Heard as the outcast hears...'

He finished reading the music and set it down on the dirty, wet floor in front of where he knelt, gazing down at it in wonder before a soft laugh escaped his lips. Goodness, how wrong he had been back in those days, those optimistic days where the future lay stretched out before him like a golden expanse, ready to be lived and loved. It had been a time of change; suddenly he had to live, because little Christine needed him- Erik, the monster, the Phantom, the Ghost, suddenly a teacher who could bestow all he loved and cared for on someone who was as lonely as he.

He wished right then, with all his being; his _soul_, that there was some way to change the events of the past and go back to those days, to stop himself from being the world's biggest fool and tainting all that he had been miraculously granted. He should never have revealed his true form. Far better to be a constant friend whom she liked and relied upon than a maniac to flee- Erik felt his heart stutter inside his ribcage. He had tried so hard to pretend, to say that love was a lie and force himself to believe it, but the denial had only strengthened it. It was inevitable, unavoidable; Christine de Chagny could rip out his heart and kick it across the room as he watched and he would still love her with all his soul, for it was her and her alone that had made him feel hope for the first time in his life. He would forever be bound to her, cursed to adore her until the last day of his pitiful existence, and he would still gladly die if it would allow her even a smile. That night long ago had forged a bond between the two of them, whether she accepted it or not, and such a bond of trust and devotion and reliance upon one another could not be broken. Erik sighed, and got up. He would be late if he continued to sit here in the dark, wallowing in the reality of this dire existence. Pocketing the score, he left the lair by the hidden street entrance and made his way to the grand foyer of the Populaire for the second time that morning.

This time the clock greeted him with the correct time, almost smiling at him as it chimed melodiously, and he warily crossed the plush carpet of the foyer and headed for the small, wide and lavishly decorated staircase. It was dotted with various people; business men, aristocrats dropping in to meet the managers, a few harried employees who were trying to stop random Parisians from coming in as they pleased- Erik had only made it to the second, wide step when someone caught his elbow. He turned in surprise and suddenly saw that it was the very man to whom he owed his publishing successes- Monsieur Jean Thiland, publisher of music and one of two managers at the Opera Populaire. His face was stretched into a huge grin and he instantly pumped Erik's hand in an enthusiastic handshake, his eyes practically glowing with evident delight. Was this really the shrewd, economical genius Nadir had ranted about?

"Aha!" he burst out cheerfully, taking Erik a little off guard with his alacrity. At least he had not noticed the mask- or if he had, he had not decided that it was a sure sign of the Opera Ghost. Erik forced a small smile onto his face, hoping that it wouldn't show how uneasy he felt. "I suppose, given that you have a huge folder bursting with musical genius tucked under your arm, that you must be the Monsieur Compositeur whom we all adore!"

Erik did not know if it was the stress of the morning or the man's slightly irritating enthusiasm, but he suddenly felt the urge to toy with this man. He felt a bubble of dark humour stir within him as he considered the grim fun he could have, deciding that if he should die in this battle with the cursed assassin, at least he would have had a few laughs beforehand. He wondered, briefly, if the man would be so welcoming if he knew that his adored 'Monsieur Compositeur' was in fact the Opera Ghost.

"Indeed I am, Monsieur." He replied smoothly, toying with the idea of exaggerating his accent but then deciding that such a thing would be tedious to uphold. He gladly noted that Thiland was far too excited to peer closely at his face. "And may I suppose that you have accepted my request to perform on this great stage? I recall that you did offer such a thing to me several months ago..."

"Oh, why certainly Monsieur! We are all too pleased to have you perform on our esteemed stage!" he smiled manically, gesturing that they should walk and talk. "Shall we go to my office? We can discuss this comfortably there, if you would like."

Erik nodded and they began to head up the steps, going through a door and walking through a luxurious corridor. The walls were adorned with the portraits of well dressed people, many of them loyal customers or patrons. When he glimpsed Raoul de Chagny's portrait up there amongst the others, smug and baby faced as ever, Erik decided that now would be the time to begin to implement his dark humour.

"Is business good, Monsieur?" he inquired casually, trying not to sound overly interested, more as if he were talking to fill the silence. Thiland's head moved slightly; he was listening. "After that fire and all the uproar about a ghost of some description I worried that the beloved Populaire might crash down in the same fashion as that chandelier. Such a beautiful decoration it was, too."

Thiland laughed easily, not sounding in anyway bothered by the reference to the disastrous end of the last managers' career.

"You sound well informed as to those matters, Monsieur." He commented in an amiable tone.

"I was interested at the time- anxious as to what would happen to the Populaire. I was there the night it happened, as a matter of fact- Mademoiselle Daae had a positively angelic voice. Particularly stunning amongst those fires of hell- that opera was certainly dark." He paused for effect, enjoying himself in a slightly morbid manner. "Though I hear that they never managed to catch that masked fellow."

"You are right there, Monsieur, but I am not convinced that there was anyone to catch." Thiland replied in an amused voice, holding open the office door and allowing Erik to enter first. He immediately led him to a chair and offered him a drink, which Erik refused politely. "So many rumours, Monsieur, so many sides to the same story. They cannot all be true. The trouble with the hype and drama over that night is the confusion- the rumours distort the truth and somehow convince the sanest of us all that a man really lived beneath the opera, undetected for all that time! No, I believe that it was that insolent pup de Chagny, running off with Daae for attention. Stupid boy. We lost our star that night, Monsieur, and she has only ever sung for us again a few times since."

"De Chagny?" Erik asked, feigning confusion, sensing that the man had more than a few insults regarding Raoul de Chagny. If he prompted the man, he would spill over and the secrets held firmly within the upper class would come spilling out. Erik sat back a little and waited.

"Oh, Monsieur, how can you not recognise that name? He was, or is I should say, that airheaded Vicomte." Thiland sounded disgusted by his name alone, speaking it with a sneer of venom that made Erik bite the inside of his cheek with the effort not to laugh. The previous idiots running the Populaire had adored Raoul; Thiland seemed to despise every girlish hair on the man's head. "You know that he stopped being our patron as soon as he had Mademoiselle Daae firmly in his grip? Oh yes, he dared to do such a thing after depriving us off our star and landing us in scandal! And that is not all; he landed a number of our girls in trouble, Monsieur. It might be improper to accuse the upper classes, but it was mine and Monsieur Galley's problem to find new dancers after de Chagny impregnated a good few of them! Vile man. I cannot bear to think what the poor Vicomtess would think if she knew how many children he has fathered. Disgraceful!"

"How awful that is, Monsieur Thiland."

"Yes, indeed it is awful! And that slimy Buquet didn't help matters as far as I am aware- when I asked a few of the dancers, they mentioned his spying on their dressing rooms, how he would grasp them in the corridors- inappropriate behaviour, you will agree Monsieur. Why, he probably lured them all in for that foul Vicomte! Ugh, I cannot bear to think of it any longer; else I will become quite angry."

Erik stopped fighting to control laughter, instead focusing on not boiling over with maddened rage as he sat squirming in that chair, under the gaze of Monsieur Thiland. Had Buquet ever dared to do such disgusting things to Meg or Christine? For the first time, Erik felt not one shred of guilt that he had caused that man's death. He had only ever seen Buquet flirt and ogle from a distance, but to think he had been such a perverted monster-! Some of the ballerinas had been younger than ten years old!

"I did enjoy that opera though, the one you mentioned. Don Juan I think it was called." Thiland commented. "I wonder who did write it, as he clearly never received the credit. I don't believe it was a Phantom or Ghost, Monsieur, as I said; a masked man never inhabited these catacombs, I am sure!" He stopped for a second, looking closely at Erik, his eyes still sparkling. "Though I must admit, your own music speaks like the supposed Ghost's. I was shocked the first time I was presented with it; very dark and passionate, with- oh dear God!"

Erik looked up from his clasped hands, shocked out of his musings and immediately saw what the problem was. Thiland's eyes were staring at him, pooled with shock and astonishment and realisation, as if presented with the secrets of the Earth. His eyes were fixated on Erik's face; the side that was masked. The wry side of Erik's mind wanted to congratulate the man for at last seeing it, but now he felt panicked as he tried to think what could convince this man that his mask was merely a medical issue, not his only visible link back to his days as the feared Opera Ghost.

"Monsieur-" Erik scrambled for the words, suddenly remembering that if the man cast him out and refused his performance that he would not be meeting the demands of the note. Then he would have no way to get Nadir back, no way to fight off this assassin! But Thiland cut him off by putting up his hand, shaking his head and closing his eyes as if lost in deep thought for a second. His face seemed to return to normal, less shocked. When he opened his eyes, they were calm yet curious. Erik found no hint of anger anywhere on the man's face and instantly was wary.

"You know, Monsieur, I think I knew it all along. When I first received your material that was to be published it seemed almost too genius to be true. And then, of course, you refused to meet me in person..." he murmured the words, still staring at Erik with those inquisitive, bright eyes, searching his face and even smiling a little. Erik felt any words he could have exclaimed in protest dry up in his throat; was this man insane?! "But it doesn't matter, not in the slightest. Only I must check before we continue with the proceedings, to protect my audiences from traumatic experiences; you aren't planning to commit suicide onstage, are you?"

Erik was stunned. So stunned that he shook his head wordlessly and saw as Thiland smiled and began to write something down. Why was there no reaction– why was the man not leaping up and calling for help, to arrest Erik and refuse him the right to perform? This was too much for Erik to ignore; he swallowed and began to speak.

"Why...why are you not shocked? Why are you not angry with me?" he asked in a croaking whisper. Thiland looked up, eyes still perfectly untroubled. He must be insane, Erik decided, no-one would take the news that they were face to face with the Opera Ghost so calmly, especially a manager of the old haunt of such a ghost!

"Why should I be, Monsieur?" Thiland asked in a reasonable voice, dipping his quill in the ink again and continuing to scratch at the paper. "You have not wronged me Monsieur; in fact, you have made me very rich. As long as you don't intend to take up residence in my cellars or kill anyone, I don't have any objection to you performing. That would be utter madness, would it not?"

"I-I suppose." Erik was too confused to say anything more articulate.

"I never imagined the Opera Ghost, the feared man of the opera's nightmares, to be such a civilised man." Thiland sounded pleased with himself, in such a way that had Erik questioning the man's sanity again. "Do tell me though; why are you interested in performing? Why now? Unless you have done such a thing before?"

"The truth is, Monsieur Thiland, that I really do not want to perform at all." He answered brutally honestly, too worn out to lie or devise any other reasons that might even be semi-realistic. The man's eyebrows rose together, a gesture that he should continue. "I have been threatened by someone of the opposite mentality to you- in that they want to harm me- and the condition is that I sing on this stage. They are hoping that a mob will rise up to attack and kill me, of that I am in no doubt, but I have no other choice but to do this."

"Hm." Thiland mused thoughtfully, comically scratching his chin and looking skywards. "Well, it took me long enough to see that mask and put two and two together and I am not metre from your face. On a stage, with the audience far out and with dim lights, no one will notice. Just...just don't give any hints that you were once the Phantom."

"That is hardly likely, Monsieur."

"I thought so. Hm." He stopped again, sounding puzzled. "Tell me, though, if you are being threatened why do you not just kill the challenger? After all, you are an expert with some sort of lasso are you not? Or is that another rumour that I am now confusing with fact?"

"No, it was the Punjab lasso." Erik sighed, irritated and tired, too tired to humour a curious, overzealous opera manager. "And I am not about to go and kill someone as I were still the Opera Ghost. I am a changed man and I wish to keep it that way."

Thiland sat back in his seat and regarded him with careful eyes, as if eyeing up a particularly fine horse and deciding whether to buy. Erik found himself twitching and fidgeting as he slid around a little in the seat, hating the feeling of being examined by someone who was closer to being a stranger than anything else. However, he liked the man's no nonsense attitude and commended him for being so calm and considerate.

"Well, you know what I say to that Monsieur?" he said at last with a big grin. "I say good for you! Now, let us talk about this performance and what I will pay you for such a thing."

Erik felt another shock wave ripple through his entire body, quickly holding up a black gloved hand before the man could start down the route of payment and money. He had to try and straighten things out in his mind- this man wanted to pay him, even though he knew that he was the Opera Ghost and didn't want to perform in the first place!

"I will not accept any money." He managed to choke out, near hysteria. "I am...I am simply trying to-to do things right for once in my life."

Thiland raised an eyebrow, this time with an amused smile stretching out on his face, and he extended a hand for Erik to shake. He did so, feeling very human at the gesture.

"Well, I cannot say anything other than welcome aboard, my mysterious friend!" he sounded pleased with the bargain, whilst Erik puzzled over what boats had to do with anything before he realised that it was merely a friendly saying. "Will you require anything for your performance?"

"Only a single piano and dim lighting." He replied softly. "Monsieur Thiland?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

And the man merely smiled that insanely cheerful smile and continued to write everything down on his piece of paper.


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: ****I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! Do you have your Team Erik pompoms at the ready? This chapter was originally two, but then I decided that to wait another week for the action was just mean. **

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed; Helena, BiancaR, TMara, Hugabouv, Anna, icanhearthedrums, RosieLilyIce93 and RathRoibenRye94. Also, thank you to all those who fav-ed or followed. **

**Enough of my ranting; here is Chapter Thirty Three!**

**Thirty Three- Beware, The Phantom Of The Opera  
(Opera Populaire, Paris)**

_**A memory, from those distant days of a golden past, when hope existed for the man shunned by humanity...**_

_The chapel was quiet, not a sound to echo about the cavernous interior. The intricate design of stained glass windows was hidden in the gloom; the gothic stonework shrouded by shadow. The only light within that empty, cold room was being thrown off by one single candle, flickering valiantly and illuminating the old picture beside it; a smiling man. A girl sat before it, her white nightgown seeming to glow slightly in the darkness, shining tears dripping down her face , her glossy curls a mass around her pale face. _

_She was young, nine or ten perhaps, but beautiful and sad. She looked at the faded picture, remembering the smile of her father when it had been real, not a sepia ghost that still made her fragile heart ache. She could not bring herself to blow out that candle and return to bed, leaving the picture and her sadness in the darkness, and yet each second she remained sat there, on the cold floor, it felt as if her heart might shatter. _

"_Christine?"_

_The soft voice came in a whisper, startling her as she sat bolt upright, but then she realised just whom the soft call belonged to. At once, the wound in her heart felt sealed and she felt the tears of pain turn to tears of relief. Her Angel had returned to her, as he had promised; he was here, and she was not alone. Her heart thumped in exhausted relief, her lips trembling as she curled against the wall._

"_Angel." She said, her composure disintegrating alongside the sob that escaped her lips. "Oh, I am so glad you're here; I have missed your company so! I worried that you might not return to me!"_

"_Christine." The tone of his voice told her that he was gently chiding her, but she did not mind at all. His voice made her feel warm and safe. "Christine, I promised you that I will always be here. I will not break that promise; do not fear."_

_The candle flickered again, throwing shadows across the room. They seemed to be monsters and ghouls to her, frightening creatures dredged from nightmares and ghost stories. When she was younger, when her father had still been alive, he had comforted her after each and every bad dream with hugs and lullabies, sung in barely a murmur as she fell back into sleep lying in his protective arms. There was nothing Christine wanted more, in that moment, than such comfort._

"_I...I wish that you could sit with me." She wept a little, wiping her eyes and trying to force herself to stop crying like a baby. "No-one else seems to care. You are the only one who understands me, Angel. And yet you are the only one who I can never reach."_

"_I think that you will find more comfort than you expect amongst the others your age." His voice was a little strained. "You have friends, Christine?"_

"_I do." She sighed, thinking distantly of Meg and the other ballerinas whom she was training with. They were friends; helping one another with the ties on their shoes, giggling together as they watched the elder ballerinas whom they would one day be like, whispering secrets under the cover of darkness...and telling ghost stories. Frightening tales of a ghoul who could appear and disappear as he pleased, preying on innocent ballerinas and haunting the catacombs of the opera house. "But you remain my closest companion. You always soothe and calm me. I cannot imagine a time without you; I would be desperately unhappy."_

"_Would you? I am a useless companion, Christine. I cannot even sit with you."_

"_But you care for me. No-one else truly does. That is worth the world, Angel." She stopped, looking back at the picture of her father, remembering how he had promised her an Angel of Music; to protect her, to teach her and to love her in the absence of her darling father, who had loved her so very much. "May we sing together again?"_

"_It is late, Christine. You should be asleep. I will teach you a new aria tomorrow, when you are finished learning your ballet steps. Now, I will sing you a lullaby, to help you sleep."_

_The young ballerina listened, intently at first, to the soft voice of her Angel of Music, slowly drifting into a calm, untroubled sleep. His voice continued to fill her dreams long after Madame Giry came and found her in the chapel, looking at the little girl in wonder and muttering a curse to a name she did not know 'for keeping her student awake for so long...'. Even back in her bed, tucked in and warm, his lullaby continued to chase the dark dreams away._

_Christine knew that the world was a tolerable place due to her Angel of Music, and wished with all her heart that he could be real, a real human man, and be her true friend._

The wings of the Opera Populaire were dark and silent as a tomb, leaving nothing to distract Erik from his wandering thoughts. He stood there in the darkness, clutching his music in one hand and fiddling with the edges of his flesh coloured mask with the other. He was jittery; bouncing a little on the spot as his eyes darted from left to right, taking in everything around him. His heart was thudding in his chest, making him feel quite sick as he stood there, the tantalising wait an experience he had never been forced to endure before.

Strangely enough, it remained the challenge of singing on the very stage he had once terrorised that made him feel light headed and dizzy, rather than whatever horrors would await him after the performance. Monsieur Thiland was convinced, in his excitable way, that the night was bound to be a success; it seemed that everyone in France had wanted to attend the first performance of the mysterious yet alluring Monsieur Compositeur. But Erik had suffered many crushing failures in his somewhat morbid past to be at all optimistic; even as he stood waiting, sweat making his mask even more uncomfortable than usual, he felt sure that someone amongst the vast audience was bound to recognise him, somehow. It seemed naive to hope for any other eventuality.

But this performance, whatever the horrific outcome might be, was going to free Nadir from the clutches of whatever sadist had captured him. It was that fact that Erik muttered to himself over and over as Monsieur Thiland came dashing past him, shooting him one brief assured smile that did nothing for his nerves. The interval was over; the masses were back in their seats, no doubt decked in various jewels and finery. In a matter of minutes, that open expanse of stage was to be his, just as the note had demanded it would be. As the strains of orchestral melody died down, alongside the chatter of the audience, Thiland gave Erik another quick smile and then strutted out onto the stage, immediately earning the applause of the hundreds and expectant men and women. Erik shuffled a little closer to the edge of the darkness, straining to hear whatever this over-enthusiastic yet wonderfully sympathetic manager was about to say. Once again, he felt a stab of gratitude for this odd little man pierce him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Thiland beamed up at them, throwing his voice out so that the cheerful tone filled the auditorium. "We have seen splendour upon this spectacular stage tonight, but the best has yet to come! The Opera Populaire has, in its glorious history, unveiled many a star that lurked in the shadows on this great stage. When we were blessed with Madame de Chagny's sudden performance, a voice accompanied her from the shadows and captured our hearts. That voice, ladies and gentlemen, belongs to the genius who now holds claim to the best selling Music of the Night publications, and he is here to sing for us tonight on the esteemed Populaire stage! Turn your face away from the garish light of day and listen to the music of the night; Monsieur Compositeur!"

The uproar of thunderous applause rose like a sea of sound, surging through the auditorium, and as Erik walked onto the stage and saw the hundreds and hundreds of cheering Parisians he felt...he could not quite describe how he felt. To see so many, so many people who clearly appreciated him, _cheering_ for him-! He felt both amazed and angry; they would not be cheering in such a fashion if they knew who he really was. But then Erik was struck with a new thought, as he shook Thiland's hand and made his way to the piano. He was not the Phantom anymore. They were, in a way, cheering for him; the composer, the musician. His past did not matter in this moment, in this glorious present that made his face stretch into a huge, elated smile.

The keys, in their contrasting spread of black against white, looked immaculate as they gleamed up at him. He set out his music before him, turning towards the audience, who fell back into expecting silence, their faces all turned towards him, eager and smiling. He nodded towards them, and turned back to his music.

"This is for you, Nadir, you old fool." He murmured to himself. Then, in that instant, his fingers fell against the keys and began to tease a song from the piano. He bent his head a little in concentration before leaning back into the music and the journey it took him on as he played melody after melody; Swedish lullabies, old concertos from distant days he could not even recall, new pieces he had written to be published... He worked his way through the songs from the publications, including Music of the Night, which he sang to the adoring audience and found that tears were dripping onto the keys and his fingers by the end.

The audience had been anticipating this performance ever since Thiland had published the first musical selection by this genius and now that they were sat in the Populaire listening to him play those pieces, they realised how truly amazing a musician he was. Erik felt astounded to hear the thunderous applause and the cries for more that echoed around him, and so when he came to the final piece of his repertoire, he found himself faltering.

It had been a strange experience, to stand entirely exposed, save his flesh coloured mask, before an audience and play his music for them. The mob that the assassin had hoped for had not risen; Thiland's optimism had proved to be fact. And now, as he prepared to play and sing his final piece, the piece he had only discovered days ago, he wondered if he would ever be able to feel this invincible ever again.

"Ladies and gentlemen." He projected his voice easily through the auditorium. The audience seemed amused by him, all waiting for him to continue with polite silence. "It has been an honour to play for this evening on the acclaimed Opera Populaire stage. Thank you."

And then he began to play his final song, the song written on the night Christine Daae had first come into his life, and he poured out his very soul for them all. He played that music, that one simple tune, with more emotion and more power than any other piece he had produced for them tonight, and as he sang the final lines he saw a great many women in the audience take their handkerchiefs to their eyes. He stood before them, music in one hand and the other raised towards them as he bowed, and their claps and cheers rose again until it felt as if his eardrums were on the edge of exploding. He smiled as they threw roses and cried for more, but simply turned and walked slowly from the stage with a tired, contented glow spreading slowly through his body. He could still taste the elation, feel the dizzying pound of his pulse in his ears-

"Monsieur! Monsieur that was truly astounding!" Monsieur Thiland pounced out of no-where, crushing Erik in an embrace that made him flush a painful red and hastily push the overzealous man away from him, straightening his mask with an irritated sigh. Thiland grabbed him by the arm and began to tug him along, still gushing as they stormed through the corridors to Thiland's office. "Truly moving! Stupendous! I cannot even begin to express what good that will do for the Populaire! Why, the last time we received that sort of reception was when Mademoiselle Daae first sung!"

Erik finally managed to pull his arm out of Thiland's grip, glaring a little at the over-excited manager as he straightened the arms of his jacket, seeing the man smile ruefully at the sight. He took the time to reposition his jacket and to put the music neatly in his grip before nodding and walking onwards, but in a calm fashion. Thiland seemed to have calmed down a little, matching his pace with Erik's.

"I am simply glad that no-one decided to try and kill me." Erik replied, walking through the door that Thiland opened for him and taking a seat opposite the desk.

"No, no, Monsieur! Your music was far too good; I'm sure that no-one would have wanted to ruin the performance with a mob, even if they had realised who you were in the past." Thiland grinned, the former hyperactive excitement returning. "I simply cannot believe it; they were thrilled with your performance! I may have to beg another performance from you!"

"I...I'm not sure about that, Monsieur."

Thiland faltered, his face falling a little as he sunk into his seat, the disappointment clear upon his face.

"Why ever not?" he asked in a tone that sounded almost sulky. Erik suddenly had visions of Meg in his mind, pouting and pulling faces at him when he did not tell her something, or when he and Nadir would tease her about her romanticised views. "You were an explosive success! You do not have to necessarily perform for us Monsieur; you could write us more operas, you could accompany another singer from the side of the stage, as you did for Christine de Chagny- the possibilities are endless! Surely you will continue to do something in the spotlight after tonight?"

Erik sighed and stared down at his clasped hands, lying neatly in his lap. Now that the drama of the performance was over, and now that the elation was starting to fizzle out, the sinister reasoning for this performance was becoming more and more prominent in Erik's mind. The assassin and the precarious balance that was keeping Nadir safe was hanging over his unexpected success like a gloomy cloud, and Erik knew now that whatever ordeal he was bound to suffer through in order to save Nadir was going to be difficult. The assassin's primary plan had failed; he would be fighting with everything he had. But Erik didn't expect Monsieur Thiland to comprehend this, or that it was fairly likely that tonight would end in Erik's own death.

"Monsieur...I explained a little of my predicament to you. The nature of this situation is difficult, and I now find myself in a place that does not allow me to commit myself to things such as future performances." He explained in hesitant words. Thiland leant forwards, listening intently, and this reminded Erik of how helpful the man had been previously. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could be of use again. "You are aware that this performance was to meet the demands of my friend's kidnapper. These people, who did such a thing, are hardly what I would call civilised. They are not likely to be honest. I must admit that I do not even know who they are. I cannot say, after what I presume will be a difficult fight-"

Thiland suddenly brought his fist down upon the desk with an almighty crash. Erik stopped, startled, and looked up to see Thiland looking irritated, his face an angry shade of red.

"No, Monsieur, I will not sit here and listen to this foolish talk! You speak as if you are about to die in battle!" Thiland yelled, outraged. Erik paled and snapped his mouth shut. "You were the fearsome Phantom of the opera, Monsieur! You are a mastermind in illusion and trickery; you can appear and disappear in a flash! You can kill in seconds with the deadly Punjab lasso! Do not sit there and tell me that you imagine you will die- you are being a fool!"

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing!" Thiland snapped in a firm voice, standing up and walking towards the fire, leaning a little against it. His face was troubled and his eyes were closed; he pinched the bridge of his nose at the stress of the moment. "Tell me your name."

"Monsieur Thiland-!"

"No!" Thiland stopped him with an angry yell. "Tell me your name! You are a person, a person who has made me a lot of money and thus helped me. I wish to know your name."

"Erik." Erik gave in with an angry hiss, throwing the word at him with venom. What did the man want with his blasted name anyway- what did formalities matter anyway? A glance at the clock told him that time was pushing forwards and soon- Erik swallowed nervously. Who knew when the next demands would be given to him, or what they would entail. "I am Erik. Do not ask for my surname, as I do not recognise it as my own. I am simply Erik. Now what do you want, you blathering idiot?!"

"Erik." Thiland repeated, sounding calmer again. His eyes flashed at the offensive comment Erik hissed at him, but he did not rise to it, simply pouring himself a drink and taking a large gulp from it. "Erik, I wanted to know your name because I want to recognise you as the person you are, not as some mystery composer or Phantom from the past. You are a changed man, of that I am in no doubt, and I know that you do not want to murder or terrorise for the sheer hell of it. But these villains you speak of- they took your friend and mean you harm. Trust me, any man would fight and defend himself when facing such a threat. The only difference is that you have the skill to do so, and to succeed."

Erik laughed. He did not know what else to do other than laugh; it was honestly amusing to him that someone might want to justify his actions. Even Nadir had berated him in the past for spontaneous acts of impulse that often ended in someone getting hurt, but Thiland...somehow, he was managing to make Erik feel normal. He was still annoyed at the man for scolding him as if he were a school child, but once again he felt gratitude too.

"How is it, Monsieur Thiland, that no-one else can never bring themselves to understand me, and yet you seem to understand and like me, despite what you know about me?" he asked, honestly wanting an answer. Thiland looked at him, as if asking him to stop being an idiot.

"Monsieur," he replied easily, as if he were announcing the obvious. "It is a simple matter. In short, you have never wronged me. You did not lose me money, you killed a sexual offender who plagued the Populaire, and you have made me more business. I do not know much of your past, it is true, but to my mind, no one reaches a point of murdering and kidnapping without suffering a great deal themselves. You have never wronged me, so I have no reason to dislike you. I see that you have changed, and want to be a good man. I am not proud of most of my own past, Monsieur, and so I try to refrain from judging those I do not know and holding grudges. What is the point in being so stuck in the past that you cannot appreciate what is staring you in the face?"

Erik felt as if Thiland's words had physically struck him. For they were true; what was the point on dwelling on things that had already happened and could never be changed? How many opportunities had he missed simply from being too stuck in the misery of his past? Erik stood up quickly and crossed the room to where Thiland stood, taking Thiland's hand and shaking it firmly.

"Monsieur Thiland," he said in a level voice, "I think that you are a very decent man."

"Thank you." he replied with a small smile, patting Erik's shoulder in a friendly manner. "That means a great deal to me. Here, I took the liberty of finding some good rope for you earlier, for your lasso. If this fight does... does end in the death of your opponent, I will dispose of the body for you."

"Monsieur, no!" Erik gasped, startled and horrified to hear that Thiland would do such a thing. If Erik did kill someone, he intended to take full responsibility and not bring anyone else into the messy business of covering tracks and hiding bodies.

"Erik, be quiet. You do not have the resources to deal with such unsavoury matters; I do." He laughed a little at Erik's outburst. "I do hope that you will return to us, Monsieur. I expect some for material for your next publication shortly." He smiled. "Good luck."

_A few hours later, still at the Opera Populaire..._

And so Erik waited. He did not know what to expect as he sat there in a room that Thiland had given to him, twisting the strong piece of rope round and round his hands in an absentminded attempt to pass the time. It was late now; well past midnight, and the darkness had turned the window into a mirror, reflecting the image of the blue and gold room back at him. He saw himself, alone and looking quite pathetic, playing with a piece of rope as if he were a small child, not a grown man awaiting the sinister business of threats and blackmail to reach its endgame.

The room was not helping his nerves, the regal colours distracting him and the wall features in the shape of dragon heads unnerving him whenever he caught sight of one in his peripheral vision. It was a disturbing atmosphere, one that served to build on his edgy state and infuriate him further as he spun round for the tenth time only to draw swords with an inanimate object.

He had changed into black trousers and a loose white shirt, wearing boots with grip and leaving his jacket draped over a chair. He normally wore suits that screamed of elegance, but tonight he didn't need to impress anyone with mysterious elegance and poise; he needed to fight. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, seeing the side of his face that was not covered by a mask- he wore the white one now, for comfort more than anything else- he felt as if he were looking at a different person. He looked athletic, perhaps, youthful. He had never considered himself in anyway 'youthful', even as a young man, and yet now he looked just that.

He drew the curtains sharply, yanking at the heavy material with little sympathy or care, and when he turned back around he saw that there was a scrap of paper lying just inside the door- as if someone had roughly shoved it under when he had been preoccupied with staring at himself. This is why I hate self-obsessed people, Erik thought irritably as he strode over to the paper and snatched it from the floor, they are constantly distracted! He read the brief words scrawled upon the note in a second, tossing it aside and grabbing his rope for the lasso, already out the door and running through the dimly lit corridors to find the back stairwell.

The note had read, simply, 'The roof, Phantom'.

Erik did not need to hesitate in his run up the stairs, breathing evenly despite the exertion of running up stairs; his feet somehow silent even in huge boots. The last time he had been on the roof had been an unpleasant time to say the least; he had managed to come across Christine and Raoul confessing love and engaging themselves to one another like little love-sick fools. He remembered the feeling that had seized him as she had tossed the rose carelessly to the snowy ground, kissing her little fop as if he were all that mattered to her. Of course, Erik could not forget how she had wept and cried in fear, talking of a face 'so distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face in the darkness'. And yet she had then dared to say that his eyes had held all the sadness of the world! What a fool she had been then, to say such a thing after sobbing out the very insults that had driven him to such a state of sadness and insanity- Erik cursed himself for thinking of such things now. After all, it had been the pain of that night, the pain of seeing his Christine tie herself to another man, that had tipped him into complete madness. If he wasn't careful, the same would happen again.

Without stopping to think, or to consider his stance, he reached the top of the stairs and opened the heavy door which led onto the roof. It was not locked; a clear indication that he was in the right place. The hinges cried out into the cold night as he slowly pushed the door open. His eyes looked around the cold rooftop almost eagerly, eyes flitting all over, finding interest in everything, from gargoyle to piles of autumn leaves. His hand clutched the Punjab lasso tightly; his breath looked like steam in the cold, crisp air of the night. In the distance, he could see the Seine glittering like a ribbon adorned with sparkles, slowly snaking through the slightly twinkling buildings of Paris. It was a beautiful night; what a night for such events to occur. He stepped out of the shadows just a little, and waited.

Suddenly someone jumped out of the shadow of a gargoyle and leapt at him, the knife he carried glinting in the pearly moonlight. Erik caught sight of the blade before the man himself, and he spun round and leapt back. The man fell to his knees and scrambled up again, but not quickly enough, for then Erik set upon him, wrestling him to the floor and gripping his throat with his bare hands, looking down upon the face of a man he did not recognise. He hesitated, wondering who the man was, but then he felt the knife graze him slightly. Erik immediately leapt back, snapping the man's neck as if it were a dry twig from the fire.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he stepped back again, tensed and ready for the next offender to come at him, and when he did Erik spun and rolled out of the way of the man's hands, knocking his knees out from under him. His fist made contact with the man's jaw, and there was a horrific crunch as the man cried out in pain. He gripped Erik's shirt, ripping it as he tried to pull him towards him, kicking out and making contact several times. But Erik was stronger, driven on by a sudden burst of determination. He wanted to live, he wanted Nadir to live, he wanted to stop living in the past and start to progress onwards with his life and make something of himself. If a few thugs thought that they might stop him, they were wrong.

The man brought out a gun, which Erik didn't even notice until in the scuffle it fired and the bullet hit the man instead of Erik in a fiery burst. He stepped back from the body, breathing hard but not exhausted from the struggle, still holding the lasso. He moved the body aside with his foot, not wanting to kneel down and make himself an easy target, for he knew that the assassin, his main tormentor and enemy, had still not shown himself.

"Come on." He called out, reckless with the confidence of his successes. His taunt echoed through the rooftop, beckoning whoever might be hidden behind one of the many scowling gargoyles. "Come out. Face me!"

Another shadow moved, and he spun with a grin to face the opponent in a flash, but he found that he was facing not one man, but two. One held him at gunpoint, his face twisted into a glare of annoyance- Erik instantly knew that this was the assassin, who had been expecting the same 'weak Erik' whom he had fought in the walkways- and the other stood with a bloody, bruised Nadir kneeling at his feet. Erik felt a snarl erupt from his lips, as if he were a wild animal, not a man. The villain standing with Nadir, pressing a gun up against his temple and with a look of satisfaction on his evil face, was none other than the vile Comte de Chagny, Christine's father in law.

"You!" Erik snarled, curling his fists tightly and brandishing the lasso angrily, though not daring to actually make a move when Nadir was at risk. Both the assassin and the Comte looked smug, pleased with the situation and expecting an easy win, but Erik was not prepared to let them defeat him and win again. When he had been evil and wrong, he had lost; perhaps that was fate, the way of the world. But Erik was not about to let two more evil people succeed. "You treacherous dog- you scoundrel! I knew that you were to blame for the impersonations and the attacks, but to show your face to me here after kidnapping my friend- how dare you!"

The Comte laughed coldly, his eyes flashing as he took in Erik's appearance and the two dead bodies littered behind him. He didn't seem too bothered that two of his allies were now dead; but then this was the Comte de Chagny. Erik didn't expect any better from such a twisted, evil bastard.

"Are you not about to tell me that you will kill me for trying to kill Christine?" he taunted, and Erik gritted his teeth to prevent the outraged bellow from escaping into the night. "I know that you were besotted with her. I don't know why; she is a plain thing, who has done nothing but bring shame and dishonour on my family."

"Now that you invite me to kill you for that evil attempt on her life, I think that I will take it." Erik snarled, though still not able to make a move to kill him, for fear or Nadir's life. "The only people that taint your hideous name are yourself and your sadist of a son. He has fathered so many illegitimate children, caused so much trouble, beat his wife black and blue until she lay within an inch of her life- but you! You are the core of his evil; you warped and twisted your son into a monster- you tried to kill your own daughter in law! So answer me this, you pathetic scum, _why_ are you trying to murder an innocent woman?!"

"In case it escaped your notice, _Erik_, I am presently trying to murder you; not her!" he replied shortly, prodding Nadir in the head with the gun again. Nadir looked exhausted, as if he might fall flat on his face any moment, and his face was grey with fatigue and illness. The bruises were ugly and mottled on his skin and filled Erik with the desire to rip the Comte's throat out. "Of course, your little Persian friend is also going to be silenced. You see, my ugly friend, you know far too much. If you had simply kept your distance and stayed out of the way, you would be free to go now. You could steal away Christine and her bastard child if you wished. But you know far too much, and now I am going to have to kill you."

Erik could not react to the Comte's words. His mind kept re-playing those words; Christine and her bastard child. Child? Christine had a child? And why a bastard child?! Erik felt his heart ache to think it- who had fathered that child? He felt extremely sad, knowing that she had probably slept with another in desperation or out of loneliness and now Raoul was likely to throw her into a convent and confiscate the child. Unless the Comte was taunting him, trying to get to him...Erik tried to brush the whole point aside and return to his former concentration.

"I don't care for your nonsense, or your feeble claims that you will kill both me and Nadir." He sniffed haughtily, making the Comte grimace. "If Christine has been put into a convent by your idiot of a son, at least she will be safe there from you and your evil intentions! Now tell me, before I decide to wring your scrawny neck; what is the meaning of all this?! Why are you holding us at gunpoint; why did you send an assassin to haunt me in London? None of it makes any sense!"

The Comte began to roar with laughter, leaning a little on the gargoyle behind him as he theatrically wiped his eyes and clutched his side with his one free hand, his eyes glinting with malice in the darkness. Erik could feel the Comte's malevolence, as if he was actually radiating waves of evil.

"Oh, you stupid beast, it does make perfect sense!" he hissed, suddenly over the hysteria and back to his former calculated evil. "It is all your fault, this whole mess! If you had not scared Christine, she would never have married my son so hastily- then I would never have been forced to contend with such a ninny defacing the de Chagny name. You should have kept her when she agreed to stay with you, you deranged man. Your little stunt with the chandelier cost me thousands, as the stupid patron of such a place. And, of course, the final detail that rather puts everything else into perspective- you and your little foreign friend know all about my plans. You could ruin me. And I am not about to let you do that. You ask why I sent an assassin to mimic you- I wanted you to suffer. Is that not obvious? You have threatened me, Erik, and no one threatens the Comte de Chagny."

"Perhaps you should instead be a decent man!" Erik snarled, loathing the man's pompous opinion of himself and his worthless title. "Then you would not have to worry about honest people uncovering your dirty lies."

"Decency?! _You_ dare to lecture _me_ on the subject of decency?!" the Comte exploded with venom. The wind was icy, picking up strength, and it whipped their faces with an acid like sting, but no one flinched, except Nadir who looked so cold that Erik honestly feared for his life. "You are a madman! Obsessive, murderous, a liar and completely insane! Your hideous face and your actions in the past have made me think of the devil himself, but then hearing your deranged words only make me pity you for being such a pathetic wretch!"

"Better a wretch than a heartless monster who has lost all sense of humanity!" Erik hissed.

"Hm. Really?" the Comte challenged in a tone that was dripping with sarcasm, raising one arched eyebrow and looking at Erik with scornful distaste. "I have power, I have status, I have everything. But you...you have nothing. No-one will cry when they find your lifeless body abandoned here; no-one will care."

The Comte sighed again and looked meaningfully at the assassin, motioning for him to go forwards and seize Erik. He looked wary, having witnessed the deaths of the other two who had attempted such a thing, but the Comte waved him on irritably.

"I suppose that I should kill your little Persian friend first; so that you can watch. You'll enjoy that, won't you?" the Comte grinned. Erik flexed his fists. That did it.

In one split second, as if at last remembering the lasso techniques he had learnt all those years ago in Persia, he unleashed the full power of the rope and got the assassin round the neck. He snapped the man with ease, watching him crumple as if stepped upon by a giant, and then Erik leapt at the Comte. He used the lasso to knock the gun from his shocked grip, and immediately grabbed it from the floor and dashed at the old man, head on. The Comte was not a fighter or assassin; he tripped and pulled Erik down with him, desperately trying to turn the gun back onto him or at Nadir, but Erik was powered by adrenaline and the pent up hate for this man. He saw the fear in the man's eyes and considered relenting, forgiving even. But Erik was not a forgiving person. He fired the gun and then stepped back.

He turned round and rushed at Nadir, helping him to his feet, feeling the Persian stagger and uneasily manage a few footsteps before collapsing again, even with Erik's support. Erik felt panicked and unsure; what was wrong with Nadir? Was he injured? Erik tried valiantly to support his friend, but he kept tripping.

"For goodness sakes." Nadir muttered, in that same old irritated tone that Erik knew so well, and before he knew what he was doing, he was embracing the Persian with all his might. "Erik! Erik, get off me before I hit you. Erik! What do you want me to do, kiss you and declare you my hero?! Let go of me, you damned fool!"

"Nadir. I was worried, so worried." Erik was fighting to get all the words out, feeling them tumble and gush as if they were a torrent rather than his emotions. "I have changed my outlook, Nadir, I am a changed man! I gave up the Black Rose- we can go travelling and go back to Persia and...and...I don't know! I thought you were going to die and it threw everything into perspective."

"I thought you never cared." Came the dry reply. "Now stop babbling and take me to Antoinette's before I keel over. I haven't had food in...well, I'm not quite sure. I have probably lost a considerable amount of weight, which could be a good thing."

Erik laughed a little, starting to arrange the Persian so that he might have full support when walking from Erik's shoulders, but then he heard the raspy cursing coming from where the Comte lay. Nadir looked angry, but sat heavily down on a pile of leaves and motioned for Erik to go and find out what on Earth was going on. Erik gripped the lasso again, warily walking towards what should have been the lifeless body of the Comte. He knelt down beside him, preparing to check his pulse, but then the Comte opened his eyes and gave another heaving breath. He was dying, but not yet dead.

"You know, Phantom, it is such a shame." He wheezed, looking from Erik and then down at the bloody mess that was his clothing with a scowl. "Had you not been so rash, I might have been able to help you."

"I don't want your tainted charity, de Chagny." Erik spat, not managing to be respectful even when this villain was dying. He hated him far too much for that.

"Ah, but then you will start to live your life again with a false idea of what happened. I take it you have not read of the 'de Chagny shame', Christine's bastard child?" the Comte laughed a little, malicious even in death. "The newspapers reported that she is in a convent, just the assumption that you leapt to. But you are wrong- she is not safely tucked away in a religious sanctuary. You seem to have several enemies in my family, Phantom. Who do you think told me where you were? Who do think suggested the idea of a mimic? Who in my family has the biggest loathing for you and all that you have done to ruin his happiness? Consider that, Phantom. And whilst you were quick enough to catch up with me and save your Persian friend...well...you are too late for her."

Erik froze. He gripped the Comte by the collar, ignoring his delighted laughter. No. The vicious old man couldn't mean- it couldn't be. Christine. Did he mean Christine?! Erik suddenly recalled, in a flash, how Nadir had suspected that Christine had not gone from him willingly that night- and he had been right! Raoul...Erik felt anger bubble though his veins at the thought of that vile little fop. Raoul had Christine and he was too late- TOO LATE?!

"TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!" Erik suddenly screamed at him, shaking him hard so that his eyes rolled in their sockets. His hands became stained with the blood of the Comte as he shook him hard, desperate now for answers. "ANSWER ME!"

But the Comte merely laughed again, and died laughing, leaving Erik kneeling beside him and gripping him with such force that his nails broke the skin and made ten little cuts in his flesh. He began to punch the Comte's lifeless body, letting out all the sudden horror and anguish and terror as to what might have happened to Christine, his Christine, who he had sworn to protect always-!

"Erik?"

It was Monsieur Thiland, standing at the door that opened out onto the roof, holding a lamp and taking in the scene around him. Erik stumbled up and went to Nadir, only to find that the Persian was lying unconscious on the floor, exhausted and cold and hungry from the ordeal he had managed to suffer through. Thiland looked horrified, rushing over to help Erik up, but he waved Thiland away.

"Please, Monsieur Thiland, get me a carriage." He managed to say in a hoarse voice, tears streaming down his face. Thiland nodded and helped Erik carry Nadir back down to the opera house, assuring him that he would deal with the bodies and call them a carriage right away. But Erik was exhausted from the physical demands of the fight and this new knowledge he now had to contend with- he closed his eyes and sat waiting, his head in his hands.

The Comte had said that he had been too late. Erik knew that the old sadist was wrong- when it came to Christine, Erik was never too late to help her. Of that he was adamant. He would find her, and he would kill Raoul de Chagny for all that he had done.


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer:**** I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.**

**Author Note:**** Hello all! So now Erik is planning to get Christine back- whatever may have happened to her... *grins knowingly* and of course there is the other issue of Christine's illegitimate child... I will say no more and let the chapter speak for me :-).**

**Many thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter; Filhound, TMara, BiancaR, icanhearthedrums, MarilynKC, Lsquared2, RosieLilyIce93, Helena, Anna and MissFleck734. Reviews are always loved, as I love to hear your opinions on the story. :-) And now, onto Chapter 34!**

**Thirty Four- There Will Never Be A Day When I Won't Think Of You  
(The Giry Residence)**

Antoinette Giry was worried. As she rose from her bed, despite the early hour, and walked across the darkened room to the window, hidden by the protective layer of thick curtains, she could feel the first painful stabs of a headache attack her already confused head, and she sunk down onto the battered window seat with a sigh of despair. Outside, when she lifted the curtains with one hand, she saw only darkness, the tiny sliver of glimmering moon hidden amongst the wisps of grey cloud that filled the forbidding grey of the skies. It was a typical autumn morning for Paris; wet, damp, windy and raining, the streets littered with various soggy heaps of golden leaves, the cobbles glistening with the rainwater. It was too early to be up and about, but she could not sleep; not when she still felt so distressed and downstairs someone was playing the piano.

Last night, or rather earlier this morning, she had been torn from sleep as a carriage pulled up outside of her house, frantic fists pounding on her door and demanding her presence. She had, of course, run to answer it but with the firm resolution that the rude person awakening her at this hour would be subject to a lengthy lecture. But when she had opened the door, all set to demand an explanation for such discourtesy, all her anger had dissolved and been instead replaced with a blind panic, the same panic that a mother whose child has just come home with a broken arm might suffer.

For on her doorstep had stood Erik, bloodied and swaying with exhaustion, carrying an unconscious Nadir with the help of another man who she eventually recognised as Monsieur Thiland of the Opera Populaire. Of course, that motherly instinct, that reflex to dash out into the pouring rain and clasp the loved one to her chest, had coursed through her veins as soon as her horrified haze met with Erik's grey face, but she had not collapsed, or fallen into frenzied hysteria. Instead, in a way that she knew had shocked poor Erik, she had launched into industrious action; helping the men to carry Nadir to a spare bed, bathing his wounds and ensuring he would be warm enough, fortifying Thiland and Erik with good strong tea, thanking the man for his assistance and finally encouraging- or rather gently forcing- Erik into a bed, so that he might get some deserved rest.

She had not asked questions or probed for answers in her usual fashion; there had been something about the look on Erik's face, something that had closed her throat up and caused all the words she had planned to say to dry up in her mouth. Perhaps she simply did not want to know what had caused him to look so...crushed. For that was what he resembled; a man who has just witnessed the worst event of his life.

But, as Nadir had so often jokingly complained of, after barely an hour of fretful slumber, she had been awoken by the soft strains of melody echoing through her house and coming from her own piano, where she instantly knew Erik was sat, playing his worries and sadness away. She had not been able to find the energy to get up and request his silence, and had been too tired to rise from her bed and start the day at such an absurd hour, so instead she had lain there in the dark, listening. But as the melodies progressed, as they became sadder and sweeter, she had found hot, wet tears in her eyes and trickling down her face, tears that she did not understand at all. She was a sensible woman; she always had been, never one to collapse in defeat or lay crying when she could be working to improve her situation. Antoinette had always considered herself a woman of good reasoning, not susceptible to meaningless tears and immune to the state of depression that she, as a commonsensical person, could not sympathise with. But as she had lain in the dark, the warm tears staining her face, she had found herself lost in a sea of confusion and helplessness, praying desperately that when morning came Erik would be happier and she would be able to cease this nonsense.

She remembered that first night, at the gypsy camp, when she as a young girl had been disgusted by the repugnant gypsy master and his foul treatment of the petrified, frail, half-starved child she had rescued from him- that image was what came into mind whenever she saw Erik, and thus she had never been able to hate him for anything he had done, instead finding herself lost in a desperate frenzy to ensure that he would never suffer again. His mistakes and cruelty had upset her to the point of tears, his successes making her smile and rejoice. Antoinette was still unsure as to whether she felt more a mother or a sister to Erik, but regardless of whatever familial notions she held, she cared for Erik and was barely able to retrain herself, wanting so much to run downstairs and plea that he tell her everything, so that she might have the hope of stopping his pain and helping him through it.

Hours passed as she lay on the fringes of sleep, exhausted but too het up to sleep properly. At last, properly awake and simply unable to lie still for a moment longer, she had risen from the bed and now sat at the window, nursing the headache with gentle fingers, still desperate to go downstairs to try and calm Erik down. The melodies had not ceased.

She dressed quickly, not bothering to re-do her hair from the simple braid, and ran down the stairs as lithely and gracefully as a ballerina- she smiled, for she had been a ballerina once. But that smile and gentle amusement soon faded fast, as she entered the parlour and at once saw Erik slumped over the piano, silently crying as he hunched over the spread of black and white keys, his face the epitome of anguish. Distraught, she felt her heat clutch in her chest, suddenly aching and so tight that she found it hard to breathe, and she rushed to his side with a horrified gasp, alerting him of her presence. Again, that motherly instinct, the desperation to hold poor, poor Erik and to dry his eyes overcame her and she stood helpless before him.

"Erik?" she asked in a low, urgent voice, betraying her own promise made in the darkness of her bedroom that she would not show him how worried she was. "Erik, whatever is the matter?!"

Erik raised his tired, aching eyes from the tear stained keys, looking ancient with sadness and guilt but also young and lost, alone in his sadness and whatever else troubled him to the point of such misery. He slumped, unable to force himself to sit upright, unable to pretend that he was fine and to put on a brave face. His chest felt hollow, his heart not shattered this time but instead utterly annihilated; he felt as if he had no heart anymore. Devoid of emotion and the urge to get up and get on with life, he crumbled before his old friend and succumbed to the horrific mantra that was circling through his mind over and over; the Comte's dying words, that hideous message- Erik reached out and clutched at the piano, drawing himself up and forcing his back to straighten. You fool, he told himself mentally as he felt further tears prick at his eyes, oh you stupid fool.

"Erik, please, let me help you-"

"No, you cannot." Erik took a shuddering breath and closed the lid over the keys of the piano, shakily standing up and forcing his legs to work, beginning a maddened pace around the room just to feel the rush of blood and movement flow through his body again after sitting still for so long. He stretched, easing the pain of stiff muscles, and fought to keep his voice even. "Forgive me, Antoinette. You have been nothing but hospitable and now I have woken you at this ridiculous hour with my music. I am a terrible burden."

"Oh, hush, you foolish man." The woman sounded exasperated now, rolling her eyes as she firmly took his arm and led him through to the kitchen, where she lit a fire and began to make some tea for them both. Erik sat heavily down, trying to shake this pitiful state off of him, but he couldn't. He felt dragged down and heavy, as if there was a weight tied to each limb. "You know that I don't care at all for all that; I care solely for your well-being. You have suffered something horrible, I am sure, but please Erik, do not allow your mind to linger on whatever happened last night. Nadir is alive and well, remember that."

"I sent you that letter, before I returned to France, explaining what had occurred with the imposter and what he had done." Erik spoke slowly, as if trying to straighten things out in his own head. He saw Antoinette's mouth tighten, her shaking hands clench round the teapot- she was recalling the horror of reading such a letter, being frightened by the tone of it alone. "Last night I met with the imposter, discovered the truth of the whole situation. The man behind it was the Comte de Chagny; his reasoning, to silence me as I knew if his murderous attempts against Christine's life."

Antoinette passed Erik a steaming cup of tea silently, trying not to show how utterly repulsed she felt on her face. The Comte! What a vile man he was...she wondered, horrified, why on Earth he would bother to go to such trouble, but if he was such a sadistic madman, she did not know why she would expect anything else.

"I killed him last night, in the fight." Erik continued, in that same hollow voice. "But he...he taunted me as he lay dying. He told me that- that Raoul was the true mastermind behind the whole attack, telling him where to find me and how to ensure I suffered. He also said that Raoul...oh God. He said that Raoul has Christine and that I am too late to save her, too late Antoinette! Oh God, how could I have let this happen?!"

He seemed to collapse in on himself, folding inwards and sobbing out all of is pent up anger, frustration and sadness into the wood of her dining table. But Antoinette was not affected by his distress, as she had been before- she felt infuriated that Erik would believe the dying taunt of a sadistic madman! The newspapers had clearly stated that Christine de Chagny was now in a convent, her child confiscated and taken to who knew where, and yet Erik still managed to fall for the lies of such a vile monster! She sat up straight and took Erik's hand over the table, forcing him to look up and stop snivelling, as if she were chiding Meg for spilling food or for throwing a childish tantrum.

"Erik." She said firmly, brisk in tone and harsh in meaning. "Erik, why would you even pause over the dying words of a man who hated you? Why would you even consider his words, let alone believe them? He was trying to get at you, to continue to cause you pain even after he had died and left this world- this is exactly what he wanted!"

"But you cannot know that!" Erik protested, unable to become angry with such an old friend and saviour, but wanting to all the same. He gritted his teeth, feeling a little less helpless and stronger again, sitting up straight and ploughing on with his argument, firing the words at her and giving her no time to respond. "I had never thought that he would go to such dramatic lengths to kill me- but he did! And if his words are true then they affect so much more than whether Christine is alive or not- this could mean that Christine did not leave me that night by choice! Christine, my Christine, could have wanted to remain by my side! Do you not understand- how can you not see what this means to me?!"

Antoinette frowned, watching as Erik sat very still, his breathing laboured after the exertion of such an impassioned speech. She had been told by Nadir via letter- for the two of them had kept regular correspondence once they had parted ways- that Erik no longer loved Christine; that he had given up on the idea of love forever. But now it seemed that either Nadir had lied to her, or Erik had simply been in denial. Considering his past, it was more likely to be the latter than anything.

"I can see, from your eyes, that Nadir told you of my opinions regarding Christine de Chagny when I was in London." Erik muttered, and Antoinette felt colour flush her cheeks bright red. Erik thought of Nadir and his friend's foolish attempts to sneak around and to keep those such as Antoinette informed of his little mood swings and clenched his teeth- he'd deal with the old fool later. "But Antoinette, you should know, of all people, that I... Christine could kill me, rip my heart out before my very eyes and crush it in her grip, and I would go on loving her. I am pathetic, I know that all too well, but I cannot help it. She is my muse, my hope, the child who loved me and gave me unwavering, unconditional hope and love and _light_. And every time I look at her, or think of her, I do not see the woman who screamed at the sight of me, or the woman who left me in the snow for another man. I see the woman who sang with me, the woman who was enthralled by my music, the woman who clutched at my hand or begged me not to kill, so that I might stay beside her. I see the Christine who I know lies behind the mask of weakness and submission- Antoinette, I love her. I will always love her. And now to hear that I might be too late to save the life of the woman I love with all my heart-!"

Antoinette realised that she had frozen, utterly motionless as she stared at Erik, and she hastily looked away so as not to infuriate him in this wretched state. She could hardly criticise Erik for being such a blind fool when it came to Christine- after all, she only over saw an innocent, frail child when it came to Erik, even when he had murdered and pillaged simply because he was able. Driven by the obstinate urge to prove herself right, and to end Erik's distress, she rose wordlessly from her chair and reached for the newspaper that lay folded neatly upon the side. She spread it out before Erik, hoping to console him even just a little, sitting back down and waiting for him to read it. Erik stared down at the merciless black print, willing the words he was about to read to calm and soothe him, even thought he already knew that such a thing would not be possible.

_**De Chagny Shame; Vicomtess Banished After Newborn Child Is Declared Illegitimate**_

_A spokesperson for the de Chagny household (Paris) has announced and published in a court circular that the Vicomte de Chagny has annulled his marriage with the once opera star Vicomtess, following the birth of a child which has now been declared illegitimate._

_The child, whose name and gender was not released in the published statement, was born to the Vicomtess on the 6__th__ October, and was apparently visibly not the Vicomte's child. Rumours have been circulating throughout Paris that the Vicomtess told the Vicomte that the child was not his without prompt, but these cannot hope to be verified._

_Soon after the birth and the shock announcement, the child was confiscated and the Vicomtess taken to a convent; both places have not been named. The father of the child is unknown. It is unclear as to whether the Vicomtess shall remain in the convent, or if she will indeed be moved to a location outside of Paris. The de Chagny household plans to move to the south later this week, and there is uncertainty as to whether they will ever return._

Erik threw the paper with all his might across the room, scrunching it into a tight ball before launching the paper missile, venting his sudden anger and loathing for the de Chagny's through the throw. As soon as the paper had been thrown across the room, much to the chagrin of Antoinette, Erik slumped back down into his seat and felt the cloud of despair hang over him again. It was so very hopeless! Whether the Comte's words had been true, or if she really had been thrown into a convent, Erik was unable to reach her and had no way of even attempting to locate her. The thought of Christine, alone and parted from a child which he knew that she would have loved with all her heart, made his heart clench horribly. Why in God's name had she been so brainless as to admit to having had an affair? And why was the father of the child not standing up for her? Erik wished that he might meet the said individual, so that he could first punch some sense into him before offering his assistance in finding poor Christine.

"So you see?" Antoinette began, imagining that Erik had come round to her way of thinking. "A spokesperson for the family themselves announced in a court circular-"

"And we both know that the rich can pay anyone to say anything they like." Erik finished gloomily, not at all optimistic. "It is hopeless, Antoinette. So very hopeless. I cannot even think as to where she could be, let alone what has happened to her. I have failed her."

And no matter what Antoinette said, he remained resolute. In fact, he was still gloomy and in a lethargic state when Nadir at last woke up and eased his way downstairs, helped by an agreeable Antoinette and a grouchy Erik, who snapped and gritted his teeth at whatever harebrained comments were made. Nadir was given an armchair and a brandy, his face less pale though clearly still exhausted, but his injuries had improved massively. Erik was not afraid to be angry with his friend, an improvement on before, and he did not flinch at the sight of Nadir's open cuts as Antoinette re-dressed them.

Nadir relaxed into the morning, talking and laughing easily with Antoinette, who seemed just as untroubled, but Erik could not lapse into this ignorant bliss, even if he tried. He was angered by Antoinette's lack of concern and by Nadir's demanding state of health, irrational and irritable as he sat at the piano and glared out into the wind and the rain of yet another November day. He failed to understand what countless authors and poets found so inspiring about such a damp, dull season; surely the rank stench of rotting leaves, or the continual buffeting of a fierce wind was enough to deter even the most romantic of the artists. He certainly loathed it.

As he stared out at the miserable buildings and the depressing rain, his mind began to wander. Somewhere out there was a child, alone and separated from its mother for no good reason- that is, if the evil bastards had not drowned the poor thing to get rid of it. And Christine- he bristled as he imagined what her situation was like, if she was alive. He hated being sat in the warm, staring out at the rain, when he should have been searching for her- but he had nowhere to start, no clues to lead him. He had been rendered useless.

Quite suddenly, and with some surprise, his sharp eyes caught sight of a speeding carriage through the rain. He expected it to thunder on by, splashing through the puddles and the downpour, soaking whoever had ventured out on such a wretched day, but instead the horses came to a screeching halt a little way down from the window he looked out of. He watched, curious, as a woman climbed out of the carriage and instantly bent her head against the furious autumnal wind, clutching something to her chest as she battled her way through the hideous weather. He contemplated, briefly, going outside into the wet to assist her, but he did not feel kind enough to do so, not when he felt so down and pathetic himself. He looked away from her struggling figure, knowing that he would feel less obliged to do something if he diverted his attention away from her, but as soon as he began to watch the iron grey sky unleash hell upon the defenceless Earth, someone began to knock frantically at Antoinette's front door.

"Antoinette?" Erik asked in a moody voice as Antoinette got up and headed for the door. She turned and looked at him. "Are you expecting visitors? Only I just saw a carriage pull up, and a woman got out."

"No, I'm not expecting anyone." She replied, rolling her eyes as the frantic pounding resounded through the parlour again. "Good grief! Can they not wait a minute whilst I come to the door?"

Nadir and Erik looked at each other as she left the parlour and went through the hallway to answer the door and to greet whoever seemed so desperate to visit, grinning like school boys in sudden united mischief, planning to eavesdrop. Each of them remained in their seats but strained to hear the movements of Antoinette; her feet in the hallway, the click as the door opened, the greeting that she started to say-

"Oh, dear God!"

Erik was up at once, before Nadir even had the chance to verbally prod him, running out of the room and into the hallway as fast as he could. The light hearted humour that had filled him when he and Nadir had smiled at one another was instantaneously gone, replaced instead by sheer dread as he raced to find out what had caused such a cry of astonishment from his old friend. Heart pounding and breath racing, he made it into the hallway and faltered, confused. There was no armed robber, nor drunken lout, just that same woman he had seen from the window. Only now Antoinette was hastily removing her impractical coat- which was soaked through- and as Erik moved to offer as arm to the woman, as on closer inspection she was quite old, he suddenly saw who she was, and what she held tightly in her arms.

It was the Comtess de Chagny, and in her arms was a tiny baby.

Erik felt numb, shocked, unable to do anything save obey Antoinette's shriek to help support the woman into the parlour, and he did so in a dreamlike trance, not really feeling the woman's wet hand on his arm, not hearing her frantic sobbing. She was soon sat in the other armchair, refusing to surrender the baby to anyone else, still clutching it to her and sobbing uncontrollably, so much so that Nadir managed to get up- slowly- and delve for a herbal concoction that would calm her down. Once she had taken this remedy, and after Antoinette had put a blanket around her shoulders, the Comtess began to hiccup and choke a little on her tears, gradually calming until all that remained of her hysteria were wet cheeks and puffy, red eyes.

"Comtess, Madame, what brings you to us today?" Antoinette asked softly, kneeling down before the older woman, trying to get to the baby but failing. The Comtess seemed to be half-delirious, not crying anymore but shaking and trembling, not just from the cold but from fright.

"I had to get her out of there- he was going to kill her!" she was ranting in a hoarse voice, distressed and panicking. He eyes were wild, filled with fear and desperation. "He's gone mad, utterly mad! They found my husband dead and he- oh, it was terrible! Terrible! She begged me to take the child- I did not want to leave her but I could not do anything else! Oh, oh, oh! He'll kill her for sure- oh, I should have stayed with her!"

Erik, who had moved to the other side of the room so as not to intimidate the woman, froze where he stood. He could almost feel the blood running through his veins turning slowly to ice, hardening inside him and chilling him to the bone. Nadir flashed a glance at him, before moving towards the woman. He knelt beside Antoinette, taking the Comtess' hands.

"Madame, you must tell us who this 'he' is." Nadir said, calmly and clearly, holding eye contact with the wretched woman, who was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. "It is of great importance, else we cannot help you."

"Raoul, my poor boy..." she whispered, her voice cracking as tears began to form in her eyes again, trickling down her aged face and dripping onto the baby in her lap, who mewled a little in protest. She didn't seem to notice; she gazed down at the floor, as if her sons face was printed there. "Things were the never the same after they came back from London- he treated her so cruelly, so violently...he and my husband seemed locked in some plot, something that I could not be told about, and I tried, oh I tried but they... when she became pregnant, I hoped, God I hoped, that it might be a boy, an heir, and suddenly things would return to how they used to be. But he shunned her, and when the child was born she told him that- oh, he went mad! Utterly mad! He sent the servants away, locked her in her room- he kept screaming such awful things, such horrid things! And then my husband was found dead this morning- there had been a terrible accident- and he just went insane, threatening to drown the baby and to beat her to death- she begged me to flee, to take the child, she told me to go! Why did I leave her- why did Raoul become like this?!"

As the Comtess dissolved back into tears, Erik flew across the room. Instantly he was at the Comtess' feet, looking up at her with tear filled eyes, Nadir trying to restrain him. But he could no longer hold it in- he clutched at the woman's hands, taking them from Nadir, and he looked up at her with eyes that spoke of all the desperation now building inside him.

"Please, oh God please, tell me that she is not yet dead- tell me that if I go there, I will be able to save Christine!" he sobbed, choking on the words. The Comtess looked down at him, her own eyes filled with tears, and understanding seemed to pool within them as she stared down at the man crying at her feet.

"You must be Erik." She said in a soft voice, suddenly picking up the child in her lap and passing it to Antoinette, who instantly stood up and moved away to the window, checking the baby for injuries or visible health problems, her face bone white and her lips drained of colour. "Christine spoke of you when she begged me to flee- she gave me letters, letters to give to you, and to an Antoinette Giry. She was alive when I left but my son, my poor Raoul...he is not who he used to be. I am afraid that whatever my husband was doing has corrupted him, tainted him. He loved her so very much in the beginning..."

Erik stood up quickly, wiping his eyes roughly and accepting the huge packet of letters with murmured thanks, moving away to sit on the floor at Nadir's feet, collapsing back against him with a groan of pain. This was all so wrong, so very wrong... Over by the window, Antoinette had managed to get the baby to smile, seeing barely opened beautiful blue eyes- she suspected that they would turn brown like Christine's- and a strikingly beautiful face. The child was indeed a beauty, quite obviously a little girl, and she turned and smiled at the Comtess, who looked less frantic but instead rather depressed.

"This baby, she is beautiful." Antoinette smiled, touching the baby's cheek and earning a slight wave of one curled fist. The Comtess looked a little proud. "What is she called?"

"Christine chose a Swedish name- it seemed to send Raoul into a complete frenzy." The Comtess sounded drained, barely able to formulate the words into a coherent sentence. "Erika Rosa Daae. That is the child's name. Erika."

And quite suddenly, the room erupted into complete and utter frenzy, both Nadir and Erik leaping up to rush at Antoinette, suddenly frantic and desperate to see the child. Erik's heart was pounding in his chest, his mouth had gone bone dry, and he quite suddenly remembered that night- _that night_, when he and Christine had-

"Oh my goodness."

Nadir gasped the words out as they both reached Antoinette and the baby, looking down upon her hauntingly beautiful face. Antoinette laid a handkerchief over the side of the child's face, just to see- and suddenly the resemblance was there. In the flesh. The face that Erik would have had, the perfect, flawless version of his scarred, mutilated deformity. Erika Rose Daae. Erik felt his breathing begin to speed up, coming in short, shallow gasps, staring down at the baby in Antoinette's arms and wondering just how Christine and he, a disgusting beast from hell, could have possibly created such a wondrous child. He spun on his heel and went back to the packet of letters, grabbing the top letter and ripping it open, suddenly certain that inside the information would be held. There were so many letters, a mountainous pile, as if Christine had written to him every day that she had been held captive since their brief, passionate meeting in London, at his own opera house...

And as he opened the letter, his fingers fumbling and clumsy for once, his eyes drank up the words and he sank to his knees as a sob escaped his mouth.

'_Erik,_

_Perhaps this is my last letter to you. If you have this letter-amongst many- and Erika in your arms, then it is by some miracle and the immense kindness of my mother-in-law. Perhaps you will burn every single letter- they are mostly nonsense after all, written to keep me sane in this loneliness; I have not sent even one, for I was never allowed. Yes, you will burn them at once when you see who they are from. You are right to hate me, of course. I was a fool, more than once, and though I could claim all kinds of excuses, the truth remains; I am weak. I have always been, always will be. _

_The truth of the matter is that Raoul was the easy choice; he never let me think for myself, dictated me, never let me do anything for myself. Then, I could always blame him for my downfalls, fall back on someone- I never had to think for myself. But you, Erik, you always let me think for myself, and encouraged me to be independent. But I, being the weak fool that I am, saw that as something to fear, not to cherish._

_Enough of my ramblings. You will, hopefully, read all my letters and will come to understand that I care for you. More than I could ever hope to receive in return, after all I have done. So now, Erik, I give to you the one thing that I have left to give. It is not so much a free choice of mine, as this is for her safety more than anything. Meg once told me that you loved children, and always wanted them. _

_The child, as mentioned, is called Erika. Erika Rosa Daae. Erika for you, Rosa for your Black Rose Opera House and Daae as her surname, for my father. She is yours- of that, I am most certain. I love her with all my heart, and know that you will too. I cannot ask your forgiveness, for I am too far gone for that now, but I ask that when Erika asks of her mother, you will tell her stories of Angels of Music, of operas and ballerinas, of a foolish young woman who realised too late what real love truly is. _

_As I sung, once upon a time, 'think of me, every so often'._

_Yours,_

_Christine.'_

Erik had only just finished reading the letter, trying to remember how to breathe and how to move as he battled with the sudden flare of pain in his heart, when Antoinette suddenly screamed. He looked up, startled, and found her reading her own letter, tears pouring down her cheeks. Nadir, who was now holding Erika- and looking very uncomfortable, for he was not terribly confident at handling small creatures- also looked over at her in sudden shock and astonishment.

"Antoinette?!" he asked, but she simply passed the letter to Erik, her face now tinged green instead of just a bone white. Erik looked down at the letter, somehow knowing that the words inside were bad. It wasn't just the look of horror on Antoinette's face that told him such a thing- it was a sixth sense, as if the letter were radiating waves of awfulness. He steeled himself to read it, and did so quickly.

'_My dearest Madame Giry,_

_Do NOT show this letter to Erik. I only tell you this because I wanted you, who has been a true mother to me in place of the mother I never had, to know the truth, so that you might help Erik and Erika as time goes by._

_I will die soon, of that I am sure, from Raoul's own hands or just from exhaustion. I am exhausted- tired of living such a life that I brainlessly chose for myself. It is a relief to know that soon it will all be over. _

_Please ensure that Erik knows that I did not chose to leave him that night at the Black Rose, and try to encourage him to read the other letters. I know that he will hate me, but I want him to understand that I care for him for him more than I have ever cared about anyone. As for Erika, please tell her that her mother loved her with all her heart._

_Again, I beg of you, do not show this letter to Erik. If he does care for me still, which I doubt, he might decide to come and kill Raoul and I just know that Raoul, in this mad state, would kill Erik. That cannot happen. I would hate for yet another person to die, and Erika needs her father. _

_I thank you for everything, and Meg too._

_Christine.'_

"She thinks that I do not care? She imagines that I would sit idly by and let her monster of a husband kill her?!" Erik screamed, suddenly thrown into complete and utter insanity in that very moment, making Erika start to cry and the Comtess cower back into her armchair. "I am going to rescue her; I will go to the de Chagny manor and I will save Christine from that sadist! How can she think that I would just stand by- how could she think that?!"

Erik took Erika from Nadir's arms, still sat on the floor, his tears dripping onto her delicate little face. He stared down at her, marvelling in her perfection again and seeing both himself and Christine in her face. Erika was instantly quiet once in his arms, looking contented and peaceful and falling gradually asleep as he looked down at her. From the corner of the room, the Comtess had started to sob again, with Antoinette consoling her.

"Erika Rosa Daae." Erik whispered to the sleeping baby, stroking her cheek with one trembling finger, aware that the room had lapsed back into silence as they all stared at him and his daughter, together. "Erika Rosa Daae, I am going to rescue your mother, and I am going to bring her back to you. You will have both of your parents- I promise you."

And he spent the entire night holding his sleeping daughter in his arms, singing her all the lullabies he could think of, crying silently as he hoped with all his heart that tomorrow he would fulfil his promise.


End file.
